REDEMPTION
by vmariew
Summary: Paris, 1640. Three years have passed and Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan have settled well into their respective roles of First Minister, General and Captain but things are not the same and time cannot dissipate the feeling that they are incomplete. Will there ever be an occasion when the Inseparables ride together again? All for one and one for all?
1. Chapter 1

_**Dear all, welcome to the first chapter of a new story but let me reassure you that the last chapter of 'Retribution' will be up in the next few days; it's been a manic five weeks at work and it's good to have the chance to be writing again. Even this chapter is a month old!**_

 _ **I was never going to write anything to do with Season 3 for lots of reasons but this is set three years after that and, out of necessity, refers to events during that time, not least because much-loved major characters are missing! Tréville, for one, has been such an integral player in my other stories that I am bereft and finding it hard to write this without him. My thoughts keep straying to 'Now what would Tréville have done or said in this instance?' I give you advanced warning at this point that the opening chapter also speaks of the passing of another old favourite.**_

 _ **Time has moved on and those we know, love and who have survived are all a little older. My timeline is as follows: s1 opened in 1630 and took about a year = 1631. The gap between series 1 and 2 was several months and, given that the Dauphin is still a baby at the end of s2, I take that as being 1632. 4 years elapsed between s2 and s3 = 1636. I tend to think of events in S3 as being very concentrated over a period of months but have allowed a year, taking it to 1637. Add my 3-year gap and we arrive in the early summer of 1640.**_

 _ **I must, as always, give due deference to Alexandre Dumas and, later, the BBC for giving us these wonderful characters and stories. They are not mine, I have merely borrowed them and attempt, perhaps a little awkwardly, to maintain the canon of the three series, my previous stories and a little of Dumas' creation as far as I can. With the series finishing, I am, as they say, in uncharted territory and what follows is mine and from my imagination. If there are any errors, they are mine too!**_

 _ **I know that, for many, there was an air of dissatisfaction about series 3 but I hope you would put that aside to read about (and enjoy?) what I think might have happened next.**_

CHAPTER 1

Rain had been falling for most of the day and had still not abated when, in the early evening and hatless as usual, Captain d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers locked the door of the room that served as his office, pocketed the key and ran lightly down the stairs. Although the rebuilding of the garrison had presented the opportunity of much-needed improvements, there were some things about the original design that could not be bettered, hence the Captain's office being on the first floor with a long balcony, from which he could look down upon activities and necessary training. Two men, hurrying across the muddy yard from the stables to the mess hall, stopped in their tracks to snap to attention.

"At ease, gentlemen," he ordered with a grin. "No need to be so formal at this time of day and in conditions like this. Get out of the rain."

"Sir!" they chorused. One moved on but the other hesitated.

D'Artagnan groaned inwardly; he was getting wet, something that should not happen to any great extent when all he had to do was descend a flight of stairs from one level to another.

"How is Madame d'Artagnan today?" the man asked. "Only we haven't seen her, not with the weather like it is."

"She was fine when I saw her a few hours ago," he assured them, an even broader grin lighting up his features. He faced a barrage of solicitous questions from the men on a daily basis and he had briefly and seriously considered posting an update regarding Constance's health each morning on a board in the room where the men gathered to eat. There were plenty of them who knew their letters and could pass on the news to the minority who were still illiterate. "I doubt that she will be quite so fine if I am late for the dinner she has prepared though," he warned.

"No, Sir; sorry, Sir," the man replied, hastily standing back so that d'Artagnan could continue on his way.

Since he and Constance had announced that they were expecting their first child, the tables were turned. Already a surrogate mother to the young cadets, nurse to the sick and wounded soldiers, and offering a sympathetic ear to a gamut of heartfelt problems that were presented to her, Constance was adored and revered by the men. Her dark auburn hair and ability to stand up for herself both physically and verbally also inspired much respect and not a little fear amongst the regiment, so that they obeyed her as swiftly as they did her husband, their Captain. Now she had her own army of protectors.

It amused d'Artagnan to see cadets and commissioned musketeers almost come to blows as they vied with each other for what they saw as a privilege in accompanying her to the market to carry home her purchases so that she did not have to tire herself. The novelty had quickly worn off for her though, and his independent wife had requested, ordered and finally begged him to find alternative tasks for his men so that she might have some time to herself.

He had laughed then. "My love, it is more than my life's worth to deny my men this task that they have set themselves."

"Do you not consider what your life is worth when you do not comply with your wife's wishes?" she asked ominously.

He had laughed again, pulling her down to sit on his knee as he wrapped his arms around her, kissed her soft cheek and buried his face momentarily in the lustrous, dark hair that curled about her neck.

"You were glad of their help in the early days when you were so tired," he reminded her.

"That was in the early days," she agreed with a curt nod, "and they can be of help nearer the time but for now, I am with child, not suffering from some dire malady. It is like having a hundred husbands looking out for me; I am being smothered. If anything, they are taking better care of me than you do," she remonstrated.

He feigned a hurt look. "You cut me to the quick, Constance. Humour me. I cannot be taking care of you all day, every day –"

"I do not need you to do such a thing," she interrupted, but he had silenced her with an index finger laid upon her lips.

"I know, but that does not stop me worrying about you, both of you," and he dropped his hand to the large swelling where once there had been a trim waistline. "We have waited so long for this and I want to keep you safe. The men are my eyes and ears. I have not asked them to do this but they have seen fit to take it upon themselves to show their affection for you in this way and who am I to deprive them of that?"

She considered his words, sighed, accepted the increased attention and tried to take their help with a good grace but it was hard on a washday, which was nothing short of a nightmare. As soon as signs of her approaching motherhood became obvious, she only had to stand upon the threshold of their quarters into the yard, when a cohort of over-protective musketeers appeared from nowhere, whisking from her hands the loaded washing basket. To begin with, she was still able to persuade them to relinquish the load so that she would be left to hang out the wet items on her own. Then, ignoring her blushes of embarrassment, one, two or even three would hand her the items to drape over the lines, despite her protestations. Letting them handle her husband's undergarments was one thing but to see her more intimate clothing in the grasp of different men or – worse still – young cadets, mortified her. To make matters worse, more recently they had taken the whole of the hanging out chore upon themselves, not even allowing her to stretch up for the line.

"You can do the washing as well next time," she had snapped only two days before.

"Really?" asked an over-eager cadet. "Of course, Madame d'Artagnan; anything if it helps you."

The one job she had delegated more readily was working in the vast vegetable garden she had established in the garrison grounds behind the new kitchen, anything to save some money and to supplement their diet. There had always been one there for as long as she had known the garrison, the first one being set up by the veteran soldier turned regimental cook, Serge. He was such a character and she had grown very fond of him over the years, learning how to deal with his irascible nature and charming him completely. How she missed him, especially now when she could not bend to weed or dig. That she left to others but she did allow the cadets to bring her a chair and she would sit in the shade of a tree, issuing instructions or advice and supervising the activities, just as he had done in his later years. These days, her thoughts frequently turned to the old man.

He had retired shortly after the bulk of the experienced men had gone south to fight the Spanish. At least he had come to the decision himself that he was too old to go with them and he had spared Captain Athos the painful duty of telling him as such. Although Athos had tried to disguise it in his own inimitable way, Serge had seen the relief on the young officer's face when he had 'requested', for obvious reasons, to remain in Paris. He had continued to serve as best he could when Constance and Minister Tréville tried to oversee the training of the new recruits but Serge had quickly come to the realisation that for all the changes he had seen in his long life – changes of regiment, loyalty, leadership, military strategy and even his role from soldier to cook – this was one change too many.

Serge missed the company, camaraderie and conversation of seasoned colleagues. He liked watching the recruits train – always had – but it was not the same. They were helpful when necessary, never disrespectful to him and listened politely to his tales of campaigns, but his days of soldiering had been over long before any of them were born; his links to the old days were gone. These boys were too raw, too new for the talk of a battle-weary old soldier like him. They faced the prospect of joining the musketeer ranks at the front line with a mixture of boyish naivety, a little fear and, more often than not, an exaggerated bravado and enthusiasm – and it was not the same as in those final days of preparation before the regiment departed.

He missed the men, he missed Tréville more than he could ever put into words when the officer moved from the garrison to the palace to take up his new position as Minister for War, and he missed the _Inseparables._

Of course, those men were no longer inseparable; something had happened and Aramis had left, gone to Douai to become a monk, keeping a promise to God. That's how Porthos had explained it, anyway. When war was declared, he had seen the excitement in Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan as they had ridden out, unwavering in their belief that their brother would return with them once he knew France was at war. Serge had still been there when the same three had returned, devastated and wrapped in an inexplicable grief that Aramis had not come with them.

Serge had never been privy to the whole story but he had watched as Porthos raged and railed against the world for a couple of days before suppressing his feelings as he turned his attention to war preparations. Athos, a man of few words anyway, never said one again relating to Aramis within Serge's hearing. Instead, he had immersed himself in countless meetings with the Minister as he readied the regiment for departure, constantly making rounds to see what the men were doing, pouring over documents and maps until late into the night and delivering an endless string of instructions from one day to the next. In his turn, Serge never spoke of the empty wine bottles he removed from the Captain's office each morning when the men were too pre-occupied to notice. D'Artagnan took his solace in the arms of his new wife, married just days before the musketeers left Paris.

He worried about them. Separated as they now were – one a monk and many miles away; one a newly promoted captain in the face of overwhelming responsibilities on the eve of war; one recently married and trying to savour every snatched blissful moment to store up memories that might have to last him a shortened lifetime; and one drifting as though lost at sea – they were as if a limb had been amputated. Serge could see that the three were broken and he knew that they had to come back together to support each other if they were to stand any chance of surviving the war. Then they were gone and all he learned of their well-being was from the occasional comments shared by the Minister or from the erratically spaced letters Constance received from her young husband.

The recruits were noisy but Serge was aware of an underlying silence that, to him, was deafening. It was the silence of absent friends, of days gone by and it was as if they were already ghosts. Things would never be the same again.

And so he retired.

There had been a celebratory meal on his last night, one that he had not even had to prepare. Constance and a team of cadets had taken care of that. Tréville had attended, delivered a speech, proposed a toast and given him gifts from the regiment for his long service. The Minister had secured lodgings for him with a widow that would help her and not strain his finances; for his part, he promised that he would not become a stranger and that he would ask if ever he needed help.

He had hoped to slip away quietly the next morning with his meagre belongings packed into a bag and two boxes, along with his ancient and dangerously unreliable musket. However, as he emerged into the yard, a group of cadets was standing to attention, some ready to wish him goodbye and others offering to help him with his luggage to his destination. His eyes misted over at their generosity and thoughtfulness - and then he saw Constance and Tréville seated at the same table where the _Inseparables_ had always seated themselves. The memory made his heart ache even more.

Constance could not hide her tears as she came to him, hugged him for long moments and kissed the old man's wizened cheek. Tréville extended a hand when Serge had extracted himself from Constance's embrace.

"Thought we'd said all our goodbyes last night," Serge grumbled, trying to reproduce some normality.

"We had," Tréville acknowledged, a definite catch in his voice, "And it doesn't get any easier for repeating. Goodbye, old friend. You will be sorely missed and that is why I have something of a proposition to put to you. Let us talk about it as I walk with you to your new home."

The Minister for War and the retired old soldier had walked together out through the archway of the garrison, three cadets following in their wake carrying a collection of belongings.

That was when the suggestion had been made. With taxes being increased to pay for war and the possible threat of food shortages, the garrison occupants needed to help themselves. Serge would not be expected to be there every day; of course not, as he had a retirement to enjoy! It would, however, be a personal favour to the Minister and a definite help to Constance if Serge could give her advice on expanding the vegetable section, what should be planted and when, how to help the vegetables grow and when best to harvest them. There would be some token remuneration for any of his time that he gave up for this; that was to be understood.

The arrangement was reached and the old man continued to come at least twice a week to the garrison to offer his advice and supervision in the expansion of the vegetable garden and, just occasionally, the Minister would find his way there at the same time to have a drink and a talk with an old friend.

As the war progressed, things in Paris went from bad to worse with crippling taxes, the anticipated food shortages happening, the arrival of Governor Feron and the increased brutality of the Red Guard. Crime and exploitation escalated and the cadets were pulled in too many directions to pay too much attention to the vegetable garden. With the passing of the years, Serge had developed too many aches, pains and stiffness to do much himself. Then a dry summer one year was followed by constantly endless rain the next, leading to two bad harvests and little usable seed for the next season; they could not grow enough to help themselves and what little they did have was raided. Their small number had too much to do to guard even their own vegetables.

With the return of the _Inseparables_ – all four of them – there was renewed hope in the fight against corruption, even as Serge's health began to fail.

Then tragedy struck. The King died; a small child became the next ruler of France; Minister Tréville – now regent - was cruelly slain; the garrison was destroyed with many of the young cadets dying in the explosions and resultant fire; Athos resigned his captaincy and left Paris; Porthos was promoted to general and immediately went back to war; Aramis was elevated to the position of First Minister whilst d'Artagnan, as the new Captain, was tasked with rebuilding the garrison and regiment almost from nothing.

It proved too much for Serge. With a heart sorely charged by all that had happened and exhausted beyond measure, he went to bed one night and never woke the next morning. When told of his passing, Constance was almost inconsolable. The new garrison was emerging, phoenix-like, from the ashes when the veteran soldier's body was brought home and laid to rest with many of his brothers, those who had been interred over the eighteen years of the regiment's existence. Constance supervised the maintenance of the musketeer cemetery but took it upon herself to tend the old man's grave, almost as a daughter. She had vowed then that she would create an even bigger vegetable garden in his memory and she compiled a book of all the advice he had given her so that she could refer to it as each year passed, adding to her notes and building upon her experience.

"I have been thinking of Serge very much of late," Constance announced as she and d'Artagnan broke their fast on the morning of all the rain.

"And?" d'Artagnan pressed, wondering what was coming. With less than six weeks to go before the birth of her first child, she had become very thoughtful and nostalgic of late.

"And I think we should get a goat," she continued, blithely cutting a piece of soft cheese.

D'Artagnan frowned, unable to make the connection. "You think of Serge and want a goat?" he queried, hoping that she would enlighten him.

"Yes, we could have several females and a male. We should fence off a section of that open land beyond the vegetables and breed them," she went on.

"Er, we have gone suddenly from one goat to a herd, flock or whatever!"

"Either term would do," she reassured him.

"Why a goat?"

"You said he had a goat one time called Esmerelda and you used the milk for a baby."

"Are you thinking of using a goat for our baby?" d'Artagnan was growing perplexed. He was thinking back to the Christmas Eve some seven years earlier when he and his brothers had been returning from guarding the royal family at the midnight service in the cathedral and they had found the body of a woman in the snow with her new born son who was just clinging to life.* Back at the garrison, Serge had provided goat's milk, explaining that it was better for the orphan. They had named the infant Marius and he had ultimately been taken in by a childless musketeer and his wife.

"Good heavens, no," her eyes widened. "Why would I want a goat for our baby? It will have me!"

D'Artgnan inhaled deeply for he could not dispel his mounting worries as her time drew nearer. Giving birth was still fraught with danger, even for a normally healthy woman like Constance, and he was terrified at the possibility of losing her. Was this her attempt to make ready for every eventuality? He tried to follow her train of thought. "So why do you want a goat, or lots of goats?"

"Why not? We could use the milk, make cheese, eat the meat. There is so much we could do and it would all be another memory of Serge like the garden," she smiled sweetly at him, enthused by her idea.

D'Artagnan got up from the table, walked round it to her and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "I need to go. It is nearly time for the morning muster but we will discuss the goats when I come back this evening."

He had left it at that as he rapidly delivered tasks in the downpour at the morning muster, went for a lengthy meeting at the palace with the Queen and First Minister Aramis, updated paperwork, signed orders and closely scrutinised cadets during their much-interrupted training between heavy showers.

Now, he had finished for the day and was looking forward to a relaxing evening but the minute d'Artagnan walked into the garrison living quarters that he shared with his wife, he sensed the atmosphere. As he washed his hands in the bowl of water she had set out ready for him, he rapidly searched his mind to see if he had done anything remiss. He had not promised to buy a goat in the intervening hours, had he? There were usually plenty of things he should have done for her these days but the demands of the regiment absorbed his attention, like the occasion barely a month before when Constance left bread in the oven and asked him to remove it sometime later. She had expressly said how much later but he suddenly had a flurry of demands from men for his advice or opinion and he had omitted to retrieve the bread, so that he was left deliberating what to do with the new charcoal brick when Constance had returned.

He was totally bemused by the way that impending motherhood had stolen away the feisty woman he had married and replaced her with one that was highly emotional and increasingly unpredictable. Having berated him for the charred remains and wastefulness of food, she had promptly burst into tears and thrown herself into his arms, begging for forgiveness at the realisation that she had been transformed into an impatient Harradine. How could he still love her when she was so unfair to him? She would only have herself to blame when she drove him from her side and into the arms of another woman.

He had held her as tightly as he dared and assured her repeatedly that she was the love of his life, and she could be a hundred times worse and she still would not be rid of him. Her irrational and tempestuous mood swings were to be understood and all would be well again once the baby was born. He had had such information on good authority - from the Queen herself.

Constance had sniffed and giggled through her tears, slapped him playfully on the chest and accused him of telling untruths.

D'Artagnan had held up both hands, his expression one of mock horror.

"How can you doubt me after all we have been through together?" he had exclaimed.

He could well remember the conversation and the occasion. He and the Queen were strolling through the palace gardens as the young king ran ahead, chasing and tumbling with his new spaniel puppy, a gift from his aunt and her royal husband at the English court.

Anne was missing Constance, her friend and confidante who, in the latter stages of her pregnancy, was not willing to stray far from her garrison home. Anne had suggested visiting her but it was deemed inappropriate. Constance had been horrified at the notion, not that she was ashamed of where she lived, and d'Artagnan had blanched at the idea with the massive escort and the heightened security such a visit would entail. Paris was much quieter than in the days of Feron and Grimaud but there remained an underlying tension. He had appealed to Aramis to deter the Queen from her plan and breathed a sigh of relief when said plan was aborted.

Endless exchanges had subsequently passed between them when Anne invited her to stay at the Louvre for her confinement. Constance had not even been tempted, despite her husband's attempts to persuade her otherwise by stressing that the garrison was no place to bring a baby into the world and, with all the dust, filth and noise, she would know no peace. He reminded her that, having spent most of her pregnancy so far attempting to get away from the close proximity of the men and cadets, here was an opportunity to avoid them totally for a few weeks.

"No matter," she insisted. "This is our home and this is where our child is going to make his or her grand entrance. The men would not countenance otherwise. It would be more than my life's worth to deny them being close at this special time."

"The men!" d'Artagnan spluttered, amazed at how quickly she could change her mind regarding the soldiers and how she was using his own argument – nay, even his own words - against him. He wondered if she were teasing him but one look at her was enough to know that she was in earnest.

She had then smiled and added, almost as an afterthought, "You must thank the Queen for her most gracious offer, but there's an end to it."

Constance's word was final and both Porthos and Aramis had laughed when d'Artagnan complained to them that his wife was beyond listening to reason. The entire brotherhood of musketeers had demonstrated its mettle when, excited at the prospect of the very first musketeer baby to be born within the garrison, they had set to as a unit, using off-duty times to whitewash the Captain's residence, hang new curtains in what was to become a nursery for the infant, and those with carpentry skills presented the overwhelmed couple with a beautifully crafted and carved cradle.

"For the first of the d'Artagnan dynasty," Brujon had declared when Constance had stopped sniffling at the gift and d'Artagnan had found his voice to thank those involved.

Constance had been using her skills as a seamstress to make garments for the little one and it was a credit to her organisational skills and the help from the men that everything that could possibly be done in preparation for the new arrival had been completed with time to spare. It should, therefore, be a period of relaxation for Constance, for taking time for herself as there would be precious little of that once the baby arrived. She had made sure that d'Artagnan was in no doubt about her intentions: she would be looking after baby, running the home and resuming the duties she gave herself within the garrison as soon as possible.

Now he was left wondering what might have instigated this evening's atmosphere. Drying his hands and returning the cloth to its usual hook, he picked up a bowl of vegetables as she went past him with thick slices of meat on a platter and put it on the table. She stood looking distractedly at it as if trying to work out if she had forgotten something important. He deposited the bowl he was carrying and slid his arms around her, kissing the side of her neck.

"Good evening, Madame d'Artagnan," he murmured, rocking her, "and what type of day have you had?"

She did not answer but wriggled from his grasp to sit in her place.

"We must eat before it gets cold," was all she would say, and for the next few minutes they ate in silence.

Suddenly, she frowned, dropped the knife she was using to cut the meat and took a deep breath. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Startled by the question, d'Artagnan choked on his mouthful of food. He coughed and then gave a small laugh. "Well, of all the things we could have talked about at the dinner table, I did not think of that one."

Her eyes filled with frustrated tears. "Now you're laughing at me!"

"No!" he said quickly, not wanting her to misconstrue anything that might upset her. "I'm not laughing _at_ you. Your question took me by surprise, that's all."

"Well, do you?"

"I don't think so," he answered slowly, warily, wondering what lay behind her initial question and contemplating which possible answer was closest to that which she wanted to hear. He opted for honesty, "but then I have never encountered one. If I were to see one, that would obviously alter my opinion on the matter, but may I ask what has occasioned this?"

"I went to market yesterday and again this morning," Constance began.

"But I thought you had made the decision now not to venture too far until after the birth?" Once again, he was taken aback by her change of mind.

"I was feeling fine, not tired at all. I wanted some fresh air and I needed to get some more fabric," she explained. "Yesterday I saw a tall figure in a long, dark cloak at a distance; he seemed to be keeping pace with me but never actually approached. I had the idea that he was watching me and told myself that I was being foolish, imagining things; another aberration of being with child, no doubt."

"And this figure said nothing to you?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly.

"No. As I said, he never came near. Anyway, I looked about me to make sure the cadets were close by and they were. When I glanced back, he was gone."

"Can you describe him at all? What makes you think that it was a man?" d'Artagnan probed.

"The height and build suggested a man. I did not see his face or hair as he had a hood pulled low, concealing any recognisable features."

"So that was yesterday?" d'Artgnan feared what he might hear next.

"When I went out this morning, I had been browsing the fabric stall for some time and I had the distinct feeling that I was being watched. I looked around me and there he was again, on the other side of the market and between two stalls further down. When he realised that I had seen him, he walked away quickly."

"And where were your escorts all this time?" d'Artagnan was very concerned now. "Did you tell them about this man?"

"They were just behind me; there was no cause for alarm and no, I did not tell them. What could I have said? That I think there is a man in a cloak in a crowded market place who may or may not be looking at me?"

"You could have told them that, certainly," d'Artagnan insisted. "They could have gone after him, demanded of him what he wanted."

"I felt no threat from him."

"How can you say that?" d'Artagnan was incredulous.

"He never came near me and didn't speak; he just appeared to be watching me."

"For now, maybe." D'Artagnan sighed. "So why were you asking about ghosts? Do you think the figure was one? In broad daylight?"

Constance gave a slight shrug as she battled with her emotions. "I don't know. All I do know is that I was not afraid, just a little bothered as I did not expect to see him here." She paused, her distress evident as her eyes brimmed with unshed tears at the memory; she continued hesitantly. "I have heard people say that sometimes you see someone and find out later that you could not have done so as they were nowhere near and had departed this life at that very moment."

"Constance, what are you saying? That you have seen someone who has died? You said that you did not know the person and could see no identifying features. Now you're saying you did not expect to see him, whoever _he_ is." He reached across the table, taking one of her hands in his.

"That's why I asked you about the ghosts. He shouldn't be here. I couldn't identify the figure for certain but there was so much that reminded me of him: the height, the build, the way he moved."

"Who, Constance?" d'Artagnan pressed. "Who do you think it was?"

Wide, dark eyes fixed on him as she breathed a name that he was not anticipating.

"I thought I saw Athos."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **The research begins. Goodness, you have to be careful!**_

 _ **There is an image of Constance amongst her laundered sheets on lines in S2E1 but I did not have her using pegs or clothespins because the earliest was patented in the very early 1800s and the most recognisable was 1858! I didn't want her draping her smalls on bushes in the vegetable garden! I just have to hope that nothing blew away; perhaps she tied them on the line!**_

 _ **And then there were the goats. I have just referred to males and females here because the 'nanny goat' was not so named until the 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **century and the 'billy' even later, in the 19**_ _ **th**_ _ **century!**_

 _ **Also * refers to a story I wrote called "Une Fable Pour Noel."**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Dear all, thank you so much for your wonderful responses. I have been bowled over by your comments on the first chapter and the fact that so many of you are following. I really do hope you're going to enjoy this story as it unfolds! Any errors that might occur in this chapter are my carelessness**_

 _ **There's a little information about the intervening years for Porthos during this chapter – it won't come all at once - but I have to be so careful because changes made to history by the BBC writers, albeit necessary at times, have meant that I might also need to tweak things as a result. I will always explain what I have done.**_

 _ **For a start, in 1640, Richelieu and Louis XIII were still very much alive (Louis didn't die from tuberculosis until 1643 and the Cardinal definitely did not become a travelling time lord), as was Gaston, Duke of Orléans. In fact, a daughter by his second marriage (secret for a while – which is giving me the seeds of another story!) went on to marry the Duke of Savoy, son of the one involved in the massacre of musketeers as seen in Series 1. With no Milady to 'bump him off', he became Lieutenant-General of the Kingdom on his brother's death, fought against the Spanish on the northern French frontier (he could have met up with Porthos), garnered more titles and happily kept changing sides 1648-1653! In 1652, he was exiled to Blois by Cardinal Mazarin, where he stayed until his death in 1660.**_

CHAPTER 2

"Do you think Constance was imagining things?" Aramis asked the next day when he heard the tale of the 'ghost' in the marketplace. He poured a rich red wine into three glasses and handed one to d'Artagnan and another to Porthos. The three friends were sitting in one of his reception rooms at the palace; the suite he had been given on being made First Minister of France was a far cry from the basic accommodation he had enjoyed at the musketeer garrison and was even further removed from the austere surrounding of his monk's cell for the duration of his stay in the monastery at Douai, but still more modest than his rank demanded.

When he had first moved to the palace, his two brothers had teased him good- heartedly but mercilessly, inquiring as to how he planned to improve the décor. He had not seen fit to make any changes to the public rooms but he had swiftly made alterations to the more private quarters to stamp his own personality on their appearance and to eliminate anything that might obviously remind him of Tréville. There were enough memories – special memories – stored in his head and heart that he did not need anything visible to evoke the spirit of the man who had been his Captain and mentor for many years.

On becoming Minister for War, Tréville had moved into a small but comfortable suite of rooms at the palace to be on hand for any necessary meetings with the King. At heart a military man of simple tastes, he had eventually compromised and allowed some building work so that a further series of rooms were knocked through and added but, with Louis' death, he had steadfastly shunned any suggestion of moving into the even larger, more spacious and ostentatious quarters originally used first by Rochefort and then Governor Feron. In his turn, he had not wanted anything to do with the places where they had resided, preferring to settle in a wing on the opposite side of the palace to where they had been.

As Regent, he would have been expected to move to more appropriate accommodation as befitting his station but there was never the time, for there had been more pressing matters in the immediate aftermath of the King's death with Gaston, Duke d'Orleans, moving into position to attack the capital and seize the throne from his nephew, the child king. The tenure as Regent was painfully short-lived and Tréville had been cruelly cut down in a hail of musket and pistol fire as he fought to protect the young monarch.

Aramis had been of a similar mind regarding his rooms and although the Queen had argued and then pleaded otherwise, he had remained resolute and taken over Tréville's residence; it was enough for him to lodge within the same rooms where there had once lived the man whom he had revered so much.

Becoming First Minister had afforded Aramis the opportunity to see d'Artagnan on a near daily basis but it was always business and it had become obvious to both of them as they settled into their new roles that they needed to make time to be with each other on a more social level. If nothing else, there was an unspoken agreement between them that they had to provide mutual support in the continued absence of their two brothers.

The departure in quick succession of Porthos and then Athos had left the pair feeling bereft. Yes, there was much to occupy their minds as they took on the challenge of their new roles but, somehow, they had always believed that there would be four of them to share burdens and ideas. With Porthos, there was always the risk that he would be cut down in battle. As a general, he could stay back from the front line, issuing orders to the ranks below, but that did not sound like the Porthos they knew and loved; it was more than likely that he would grow tired of that arrangement for he would always want to be involved, to lead by example and that, to him, would always mean being in the thick of battle. Verbal and written reports brought to Paris were welcomed but there was always some trepidation until Aramis heard directly from a messenger or saw with his own eyes the familiar scrawl that let him know his brother still lived.

It was always such a relief when Porthos was able to return to Paris, his wife and brothers but his most recent absence had lasted nearly a year. When promoted to General, he had ridden out to engage with Spanish forces who had based themselves in the southern Netherlands, from where they crossed the border to launch lightning and devastating raids in northern France, causing heavy civilian and military casualties and severe economic hardship to the region.

The frequent battles had kept Porthos busy and visits to the capital were few and far between, especially when enemy incursions increased to such an extent that it was clear to all that the Spanish invaders were set to attack Paris. It was only because they were fighting on so many fronts that financial support was spread thinly to breaking point and so the Spanish were forced to suspend their aggressions. That much-needed lull in the enemy attacks gave the French forces the opportunity to regroup and repel Spanish forces back towards the northern border. It was from those successful campaigns that Porthos had returned to make his report in person, seek further funding and recuperate from the shoulder wound and infection inflicted by a musket ball.

It was not long before he had joined his brothers in their weekly ritual, although now their status dictated that they were not allowed to frequent even the better drinking establishments on the Paris streets. So they wined and dined together, usually in bachelor Aramis' rooms, and contemplated the hand that life had dealt them, occasionally humouring Porthos with a genuine card game with limited stakes and a strong warning that he was not to see if he still had skills enough to cheat.

As much as they laughed and joked, their hearts were heavy, for they sorely missed their brother. When Athos had left to embark on a new life with Sylvie and to await the birth of their child, he had sworn to return one day but there had been no mention in his letters of when that might be. They eagerly shared the contents of his communications but, knowing him of old, they could never dispel the feeling that he was not divulging all that was happening in his life.

He corresponded regularly, at least once a month, and to each of them in turn, correctly assuming that they would pass on any relevant news to each other and thereby saving him the necessity of sending three similar letters. When Porthos was away, his wife, Elodie, would bring the latest missive to Aramis and either he or d'Artagnan would forward the information to him, in conjunction with any military or political details that the General needed to hear. His letters from the front were sporadic so replies were always sent to Athos from Paris and usually including another page directed to Sylvie from Constance and Elodie.

He had been almost silent for the first four months, adding to the pain of separation that the others had experienced, but then he had sent brief notes with no return address to confirm that he and Sylvie were well and then that a boy had been born and that both the child, Raoul, and his mother were well. Another two months passed before they knew how to contact him when he at last informed them that he had acquired some land to the northeast, a good couple of days' ride from Paris and a long way west of Pinon. He was not forthcoming on the 'this and that' with which he occupied himself but did admit to working the land to support his family. It was a far cry from the days of the former comte and Captain of the King's Musketeers and they could never tell from his letters whether or not he was truly happy. They could, at least, detect a certain contentedness and only once, when the third year of their separation had commenced, had Aramis dared to express aloud a concern that it would not be enough to stimulate Athos' sharp mind for long.

"He has a family to distract him," d'Artagnan had said by way of response, a silly smile playing on his lips as he thought upon that day's confirmation that Constance was with child.

"I am not decrying the power and influence of a good woman and the joyous demands of fatherhood but the picture of Athos being nicely settled was never one that immediately came to mind. He needs challenge to function at his best," Aramis said gently.

"Do you really believe he could never be happy with a quieter, simpler life? With Sylvie?" d'Artagnan frowned.

"Do not misunderstand me," Aramis began. "There was no one more pleased than I was when he found love with Sylvie, and the look of terror on his face when he first heard that he was going to be a father was something to behold! Remember his indecisiveness about committing himself to her and how quickly he made a choice when he knew that she was carrying his child and he had killed Grimaud."

"Do you think he was just being honourable and taking responsibility for her and the child?"

"I admit that it crossed my mind," Aramis reluctantly admitted, saddened by the horrified expression his words brought to his friend's face, "but I also wondered if he was running away from what had happened with Grimaud and their final confrontation. Athos had survived four years of war, leading and losing men and friends, and then he came back to Paris. To what? A seething den of sin and corruption, from the lowest street life to the heart of the palace."

"But we were with him, supporting him all through the war; then you came back here with us and he was so pleased," d'Artagnan reasoned.

"I know the three of you were together – please do not think that I denigrate that - but what happened to him in+that time? _Really_ happened to him? You know how he shuts down and refuses to talk. There was his responsibility in the war and then that burgeoning obsession with Grimaud. Also, I truly think Tréville's death undid him more than he ever revealed; it was as if he were in a deep state of shock. I never saw him grieve, not when the man died in my arms and not when we buried him. They had been so close but there was no time for mourning because of the attack on the garrison.

"Tréville was a father-figure to us all but with Athos it was always something more and I, for one, do not begrudge him that. He had been through so much and his relationship with Milady was so guilt-ridden and complicated that I seriously wonder if he can ever be at peace with himself. That affected him in the formation of all other relationships; I know from personal experience just how hard it was and how long it took for Porthos, Tréville and I to make any headway with him when he first joined the Musketeers. He still managed to conceal some major aspects of his past life for five years and that was until after you joined us."

"Mmm," d'Artagnan agreed, "and that stirred up a whole heap of trouble." When he had slept with the beautiful, mysterious Milady de Winter and accepted her patronage, he had not known that she was the estranged wife of a man who was fast becoming one of his closest friends.

"You can't think that he will tire of Sylvie though?" d'Artagnan went on.

Aramis raised his hands to placate him. "I'm not suggesting anything of the sort. She is so different from Milady; she's feisty and intelligent, just what he needs and I have no qualms about the love that they have for each other but I wonder if, deep down, he remains so damaged by his history that he cannot accept that he deserves any long-term happiness, that self-doubt will start eating away at him again."

D'Artagnan stared hard at him for several moments. "I hope you are wrong for it is past time that he merits some peace and love."

"I could not agree with you more," Aramis concurred.

This conversation and more were uppermost in d'Artagnan's thoughts as he sipped at the wine and endeavoured to form a diplomatic answer to Aramis' questions that would not cast his wife in an unfavourable light.

"Constance has been somewhat strange and emotional as her time draws near and is repeatedly changing her mind about things. I reluctantly confess that I think it is nothing more than a fancy on her part," d'Artagnan admitted sheepishly.

"Perhaps she's lookin' forward to 'is next letter. It must be about time we heard from 'im," Porthos proposed and the others murmured their agreement.

In the subsequent pause, Aramis frowned. "What did Athos have to say in last month's letter? For some reason, I cannot recall his news."

The three looked questioningly at each other.

"Who had last month's letter? I didn't hear from either of you about what it said," Porthos prompted.

"I suppose we didn't bother forwarding a message as we knew that you were on your way home at that time," d'Artagnan said.

"That's as maybe, but what did it say?" he persisted.

D'Artagnan and Aramis now exchanged concerned glances, their minds blank.

"It wasn't my turn to receive a letter," d'Artagnan declared. "The last one Constance and I received was some time ago and it included news from Sylvie. She had been excited to lean that Constance was pregnant and announced that she, too, was now expecting her second child."

"But that was ages ago," Porthos objected. "I remember that one and that was well before the last campaign I fought where I was injured. The recovery time was long and then I travelled back here; I've been in Paris for three weeks now."

"There must have been one to Elodie," Aramis insisted but Porthos was shaking his head.

"I'd have known about it if she had. I had three letters from her once I was wounded."

"Surely you must have heard!" d'Artagnan was looking directly at Aramis.

"No, the last one that came to me was before Sylvie's news; Athos' letter was full of the planting he'd done and how the little school that Sylvie had set up was thriving. He was asking me if I could see my way to sending any resources to them so I forwarded paper, pens and ink as soon as I could." Aramis paled at the realisation. "That means that we have not heard from him in virtually three months."

"Why hasn't he written?" Porthos growled, his brow furrowing in consternation.

"More to the point, why have we not realised that we had not had any news? That is unforgivable of us," d'Artagnan said.

"I suppose it was because we had gone so long before hearing from him in the early days that, subconsciously, we saw no purpose in worrying," Aramis reasoned.

"But he was nothing if not regular in his missives once they were settled. Porthos at least has the excuse that he was wounded and sick but we have no such justification."

"Somethin's wrong; I feel it," Porthos announced.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened. "Do you think there is anything in what Constance thinks, about seeing people when they have died?"

Aramis shook his head vehemently. "I don't and won't believe it."

"Well, that only leaves one explanation then."

Aramis and d'Artagnan both looked to Porthos, awaiting his suggestion.

"Constance actually saw Athos."

"It's impossible; she couldn't have done. If she had, why hasn't he come directly to us? What is he doing back here in Paris? Is he going to be here long? Where is he staying and where are Sylvie and Raoul?" Aramis demanded.

The three men lapsed into a troubled silence; there were too many questions and too few answers. The first thing they had to determine was whether or not Constance had actually seen their brother. They could argue mistaken identity or even wishful thinking on her part but they could not explain the lack of correspondence and that bothered them immensely.

Where, though, were they to begin finding their answers?

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **The mention of campaigns on the northern French border and the prospect of a Spanish assault on Paris happened as mentioned briefly here.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**_Wow, thank you SO much for the feedback on the last two chapters. So many have marked it as a favourite and so many more are following already!_**

 ** _I'd like to take a moment to explain what I have already sent to fredandgeorgerule who queried the language used by Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan during their conversation in the last chapter. My reasoning is that this is three years after we have last seen them and we find them in totally different circumstances and moving consistently within higher social circles. Aramis is First Minister, d'Artagnan a Captain and Porthos a General (although I have kept some apostrophes for contraction for him; his level of formality 'slips' occasionally!) The idea of Aramis being raised in a brothel was a sudden series 3 inclusion (a somewhat strange notion, I felt) but this was the man who had begun training for the priesthood, for which he would have learned Latin. Dumas refers to Athos correcting Aramis' declensions etc! He also had the gift of words to charm the ladies. D'Artagnan hailed from the country but he was not a 'country bumpkin' when we first see him in season 1. I'm also trying to give a flavour of the 17_ _th_ _century, where speech patterns would have differed from now but I didn't want to try to replicate them any more closely. I do deliberately try to steer any way from any language that is too modern and am often exploring etymological roots – hence the comment at the end of chapter 1 about the goats! In 'Renegade', I wanted to refer to 'cronies' and suddenly thought it might be too modern. It was, but only by about 30 years! It originated at either Oxford or Cambridge universities in the 1660s and referred to students of law/politics. So I hope you understand and will bear with my language idiosyncrasies; I have deliberately made the men sound a little more formal than before._**

CHAPTER 3

The following day, Queen Anne was hosting a noon reception for a selected group of minor nobles. First, she would hear their appeals and then sit with them for a three course meal. It was something she did periodically, intent upon demonstrating that she had an ear for all their concerns and not merely for those of a more influential standing at court. In quieter moments, when she was in discussion with her First Minister, she admitted finding it a chore and duty, devoid of pleasure, but it was something her late husband had always reluctantly undertaken and she had vowed not to abandon that arrangement.

She was sitting on the dais, her delicate features carefully composed, hands resting lightly in her lap as she greeted each with a serene smile and slight dip of the head in acknowledgement. Aramis stood to her right as each noble approached, his name and title announced by a chief steward and bowed low. The majority had some grievance upon which they wanted to expound but Aramis limited their time, asking pertinent questions on behalf of Her Majesty as a scribe sat to one side, conscientiously noting the details of each exchange for future reference and for a possible solution.

One particularly vociferous man, Baron Auguste Desmarais, was upset that he was not permitted to speak at length, but Aramis terminated his complaint about unrest amongst the villagers on his land and how he had had to mete out justice to the malcontents. He was becoming a little too graphic in detail, his language a trifle inappropriate when Aramis stepped forward.

"Baron Desmarais, this is indeed a problem that requires some attention. Perhaps it would be more fitting if you and I spoke together at length after the wonderful repast that has been prepared in the palace kitchens," Aramis said smoothly, his fixed smile somewhat at odds with the warning glint in his dark eyes.

Desmarais seemed about to object, disappointed that he was to lose the ear of the Queen and the possible sympathy of the audience around him, but then he realised he would have the undivided attention of France's First Minister in a private audience and the offer immediately placated him. A sycophantic smile and another bow preceded his steps backwards into line as another noble moved forward to replace him. Standing as he had been, forward of the others and facing away from them, he had missed the exchange of glances between several of them but Aramis had seen it all. His moans had been accompanied by smirks from several; they were obviously delighted by the difficulties that beset him. It seemed that Desmarais was not beloved by all!

"Thank you for dealing with him," Anne said later as they sat at the top table and glanced at the diners seated on both sides of two long rows of tables set at right angles to their own.

"It is my pleasure to save you from the bore, although I doubt that the experience itself will be very pleasant," Aramis said, watching Desmarais over the rim of his wine goblet as he took a slow, deliberate sip.

It had been entirely coincidental in the pre-arranged seating plan that he had been placed over half way down on the outer side of the left-hand table but he was still volubly holding forth about his situation and occasional strident words drifted towards Aramis, words such as 'ring leaders', 'punishment' and 'no mercy."

Aramis' eyes never stopped watching the objectionable noble. The man must have sensed that he was under some scrutiny for he suddenly looked directly at the former musketeer and gestured a salutation with his raised glass, no doubt relishing the prospect of a discussion directly with the First Minister.

Aramis frowned and continued to look long and hard at the Baron again as he thought once more of the nature of the man's complaint. He lamented the fact that he had not paid closer attention to the man when he had been airing his protests and he was anxious to pursue the subject of the unrest amongst the Baron's tenants, how that unrest had manifested itself and why it had arisen in the first place.

"What is wrong?" Anne asked, the concern plain in her eyes as she had seen the change that had overcome him.

"Nothing," he replied, eager to reassure her. "I was just thinking about our delightful Baron and regretting my suggestion of meeting with him this afternoon." He adopted a pained expression, the gleam in his eyes telling her that he was jesting – in part. "Let it be proclaimed near and far that I shall come face to face with the detestable Baron under sufferance but that, ultimately, I do it for the service of France and my Queen."

"And what about your King?" she asked softly.

He grew serious as he thought of the child that he could never acknowledge as his own. "That goes without saying, Your Majesty. Always."

Just then, the said Baron's voice broke through a lull in conversation, his tone belligerent.

"Well they deserved it!" he announced. "If they want to continue as my tenants then they will damn well do as they're told."

Shocked gasps ran the length of both tables and an uncomfortable silence fell upon the guests as they looked as one, first at the offending noble and then at the Queen. Aramis was on his feet and moving with ease down the room towards Desmarais as d'Artagnan approached from a window alcove at the far end where he had been discreetly surveying proceedings. Even as he stepped forward, several musketeers emerged from where they had been secreted in order to render him assistance but his raised hand was enough to stay them in their tracks.

He reached the Baron first. "Sir, if you would accompany me please …" he began.

"Why? Why should I?" Desmarais demanded, clearly on the verge of being confrontational. He wavered unsteadily in his seat as he leaned back to glare up at the musketeer standing over him but a stabilising hand on his shoulder kept him on the chair.

"What Captain d'Artagnan means to say is that I have requested that you and I meet now rather than a little later," Aramis said lightly as Desmarais was helped to his feet by d'Artagnan. It was obvious to all that the man had imbibed a little too much of the red wine provided with the food; it had loosened his tongue and tarnished his manners as a result.

As Desmarais was escorted from the vast room under the watchful eyes of the Queen and her other guests, Aramis spoke deliberately loudly and smoothly. "I apologise, Baron. It is entirely my fault that I had forgotten a prior meeting. Matters of state; I am sure that you understand. Thank goodness for my secretary."

Desmarais' loud protests subsided, both in volume as he was led from the room and in forcefulness as he believed the First Minister's explanation. It was not until he was seated in the large room serving as Aramis' office and saw that d'Artagnan intended upon remaining that he attempted to voice one more objection.

"Why is he here?" Desmarais asked.

"As Captain of the Musketeers, d'Artagnan would be required to know the details of any unrest in the country. It would be expected of him to lend military support if needed to any of His Majesty's subjects. I know there are other regiments who would be able to respond but the Queen specifically renamed these men the People's Musketeers. You, my dear Baron, as one of 'the people', are entitled to assistance in restoring law and order to your region, should it be considered necessary," Aramis explained, nodding in d'Artagnan's direction.

In demonstrating a modicum of respect for the Baron's position, d'Artagnan straightened up from where he had been leaning against a bookcase just inside the door, and moved further into the room to be within the nobleman's line of vision.

"I'm not looking for help from the musketeers," Demarais blustered.

"Then what is it you _are_ looking for?" Aramis continued, gracefully lowering himself into the ornately carved chair behind his desk. "How can I be of assistance? Why have you come to court with this grievance?"

Desmarais looked uncomfortable. "I did not specify that I wanted you to do anything directly about the situation, but I did want understood the trials that I have faced over the past three months or more, not least in monetary issues. You are expecting taxes from me – increased ones at that to pay for the war with Spain – and I have passed on that reasonable increase to my tenants, but they are nothing but disloyal to the Crown and me."

"How so?" d'Artagnan asked, his unwavering attention fixed upon Desmarais.

"They have come to me individually and in small groups, pleading poverty and full of excuses as to why they cannot meet the larger monthly payments in full. It is nothing but ineffective husbandry on their part if the last harvest was poor or tools have had to be replaced. There seemed little wrong with those same tools when they used them to attack my men."

"The villagers attacked your men with tools?" Aramis frowned, leaning forward in his chair, his lower arms resting on the desk even as he laced his fingers together. "Why would they do that?"

"They were refusing to pay the increased levy and I sent my men to extract the money from them," Desmarais responded in justification.

"Your men used force." It was a statement from Aramis, not a question.

"When they had to, yes," the Baron bleated. "The order for increased monies came from here, from Paris, and I have sought to implement that order. If the tenants on my land refuse to pay, then the tax has to be exacted from them somehow."

"I need clarification, Baron," Aramis had lost his sympathetic expression. "First you tell me that your people are pleading poverty, suggesting that they are _unable_ to pay, but now you are saying they _refuse_ to pay. Which is it?"

Desmarais looked from Aramis to d'Artagnan in desperation, as if hoping that the military man would understand better. "Unable, refusing; what does it matter? At the end of the day, they are not handing over the money."

"I would suggest that there is a great deal of difference," Aramis persisted. "Have they paid any tax at all? You indicated that they were unable to pay the increase in full so I take it they have paid something?"

Desmarais took umbrage at that. "I am the innocent party here, endeavouring to do my part in all loyalty to His Majesty, and you interrogate me as if I am the miscreant."

"I apologise, Baron. I do not mean to give the impression that I am interrogating you but I do need to be fully cognisant of the situation," Aramis went on. Something about the man's protestations was far from satisfactory and the First Minister was adamant that he was going to get to the bottom of what was happening in … wherever it was. He tried to recall where the Baron's lands were but the location escaped him. Should the opportunity arise without angering the man even more or making himself look foolish, he would ask directly; otherwise, he would wait to inquire of his trusty secretary.

Desmarais leaped to his feet, the very image of indignation. The fact that he swayed dangerously as he did so indicated that he was well on the way to inebriation and that his judgement was likely to be seriously impaired. On the one hand, he could reveal to them more than he originally intended, whilst on the other, there was also the risk that he would refuse to co-operate any further and fall silent.

Fortunately for Aramis and d'Artagnan, the former state proved to be the case.

"Most have found the coins to pay what was previously expected and some have the wherewithal to pay part of the increase but not all of it. They have even dared to petition me!" Desmarais raised his voice in fury at the affront.

"Petition you?" Aramis repeated.

"Yes. Think of the audacity! It was delivered to me written and then signed by some, whilst others added their mark. It is said a little knowledge is a dangerous thing and here is the evidence. They are peasants; they work the land and yet they fool themselves that they have the right to a little learning; so now they think they know and understand everything, that they can have meetings and challenge any little thing with which they do not agree! Well, I soon put a stop to that!" Desmarais spat out viciously.

"What did you do?" Aramis demanded, his voice low and deceptively calm. He could not explain why he felt a sudden chill in his spine.

"My men interrupted one such meeting they were having, demanded the taxes in full and, when the people objected, ordered them to disperse. They then fired the place where the villagers had gathered so that they did not have anywhere to have their ill-conceived meetings." Desmarais was momentarily proud of what his men had achieved in his name.

"How much force was used?"

Desmarais eyed the First Minister with defiance. "Whatever was duly necessary. They attacked my men."

"I expect that they were defending themselves," d'Artagnan interrupted in disgust.

"They were trying to stop us from rounding up their ringleaders! Two of my best men were murdered, cut down by madmen armed with anything they could lay their hands on."

"And did you round up any of them?" Aramis asked.

"We caught three of them; they are locked up in the cellars of my chateau. This is another reason why I have come to Paris, to notify you of these arrests. In due course, they will be subjected to the law and proper justice will be administered but the outcome is obvious. They will hang for their crimes, be it refusing to pay the taxes demanded by the Crown, fomenting insurrection or committing murder; let that be a lesson to them all."

"How many escaped capture?" Aramis pressed.

"At least two that I know of but do not worry. Whilst I am here in Paris, my men are under instruction to search for them, to leave no stone unturned and to take whatever actions they deem necessary in the pursuance of their task."

Aramis was horrified. He was already concerned about the nature of the 'law' those currently imprisoned might endure, but the thought of Desmarais initiating a manhunt was highly disturbing and likely to result in nothing more than uncontrolled vengeance.

"And what of the villagers?" d'Artagnan pressed. "Were there casualties amongst them?"

"Undoubtedly!" Desmarais answered, his tone dismissive. "But it was their own fault. They had brought it upon themselves, especially when their unrest spread to neighbouring villages. They had to learn a lesson and if it was a hard one, then so be it. They cannot think that they can stand outside the law and get away with their actions."

"How many?" d'Artagnan was angered by the man's coldness.

"What?" Desmarais was incredulous that the musketeer was so obsessed with those who had done wrong.

"How many casualties were there amongst the villagers?"

"I do not know and I do not care. There were those who were injured, some seriously."

"Any deaths?" d'Artagnan's voice and face were now menacing. He had been born into just such a village area and he knew how hard it was to survive when the harvests were bad, the winters bitter and the Crown's tax collectors were due to arrive.

"I have no idea but there were some fatalities, as well as my men."

Silence fell upon the room as Aramis deliberated what he had learned.

"Ignore the taxes for the moment. Do you believe that you have the situation once more under control?" The First Minister tried not to sound as tired and dispirited as he was feeling.

The Baron nodded.

"You have not requested and therefore I am not sending any musketeer support to suppress a village," Aramis continued. D'Artgnan moved to object but Aramis stopped him with a raised hand and added, "For now. Nothing is to happen at present to the men you are holding, Baron."

"But I have the right to administer justice for crimes on my land and sanction perpetrators accordingly!" Desmarais objected.

Aramis slammed his palms down on the desktop as he pushed himself abruptly to his feet. "And I have the right to over-ride those decisions, dictate where the court will be held and impose a stay of execution if I so choose. I am telling you now that I _do_ choose! You will continue to search for the remainder of those involved. Inform me when you intend returning home for Captain d'Artagnan will dispatch a unit of musketeers to accompany you to collect and move your prisoners; their cases will be heard here in Paris. I expect to have at least three healthy prisoners delivered to me so you had better keep your men under control in the meantime."

"But -!" Desmarais began to splutter an objection.

Aramis suddenly flashed a disarming smile, all traces of his former anger having disappeared.

"It is for the best, my dear Baron. I doubt yours is the only area where there will be some opposition to the increased taxes. If we have a high profile case here in the city, its outcome can be spread far and wide, thereby deterring any further thoughts of unrest. There will undoubtedly be tension whilst you continue to search for those on the run but as you so rightly say, there are lessons to be learned here. By everyone."

Aramis moved round the desk and clasped the Baron's hand in his. There was no mistaking the message of intransigence in the subsequent strong grip and handshake. It was inadvisable for anyone to underestimate or trifle with France's First Minister.

"And now, my dear Sir, our meeting has to come to an end. I did say that I had another meeting to attend. If there is anything else you wish to tell me, please do not hesitate to notify my secretary. You will know who he is; he was the one taking notes in the reception room and I expect that he will be waiting outside the door. Please ask him to step in."

"What did you think?" Aramis asked as he resumed his seat and gestured for his friend to sit also.

"He was not being totally honest with us," d'Artagnan stated, taking the chair vacated by the Baron.

"Far from it. I neither like nor trust the man and I fear for those who live on his land. That is why I want you to send your best musketeers there. Yes, I want those prisoners brought out safely but I want your men to be in a position to be observant and ask questions of the other villagers; find out from their perspective what has been going on. The musketeers would be there with royal authority, disassociated from Desmarais' men."

D'Artagnan nodded in agreement and gave a winsome smile. "It's the kind of mission Tréville would have sent us on in the past."

"Just the kind of thing," Aramis admitted. "Porthos would have his bags stuffed with provisions…"

"Athos would have his stuffed with bottles of wine," d'Artagnan interjected.

Aramis gave a mock frown. "Only the one, d'Artagnan, only the one! And you would be pining for the beautiful Madame Bonacieux."

"And you would be pining for your latest conquest."

The two laughed at the fond memories before a seriousness descended upon them both.

"Those were special days, my friend. If only we had realised it at the time," Aramis murmured.

"They were indeed," d'Artagnan replied softly. "Do you miss them?"

Before Aramis could answer, a knock sounded at the door and, at his subsequent invitation, a small, well-dressed man slid into the room.

"You asked for me, Minister?" the man asked, executing a light bow even as he spoke.

Aramis nodded. "Remind me where the Baron Desmarais' estate is."

He waited as the secretary looked through the book he was carrying.

"Near Louviers, Minister, north west of Paris. Will there be anything else?"

Aramis shook his head, unable to answer. The chill that he had felt earlier returned with force and wrapped around his heart.

It was not until the door had closed once more upon the departing secretary that he dared to look at d'Artagnan and found his voice.

"Near Louviers," he repeated in little more than a whisper.

"Yes," d'Artagnan replied, his eyes wide with alarm. "That's where Athos and Sylvie settled."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Dear all, well here we are with the next update. Thank you SO MUCH for all the feedback on 'Retribution'. I admit that I felt somewhat bereft for at least a week after I finished it but then I turned my attention to this chapter, which subsequently ran away from me and refused to stick to the plan! The tone was intended to be curious and lighter, but then it changed! I blame it on not having Tréville and Athos present for a start.**_

 _ **There is much that had me questioning S3 (and there are many references to it and earlier series in this chapter) and so much to explore in how the brothers subsequently reacted to all that transpired. As I wrote this and wanted to head in one direction, so Porthos and d'Artagnan had other ideas as they reflected on the past and all that had happened. Apologies for any errors that have crept through my proof-reading.**_

CHAPTER 4

I

There was no denying that Porthos loved his ready-made family and he adored his little step-daughter who had just celebrated her third birthday. That was one unarguable benefit that resulted from his recent wound; he had been at home to see her mark another year for he had missed the first significant two when he was away at the front. However, he relished even more the snatched time when he was alone with Elodie. At night, with their little one asleep in an adjoining room, he would lie contentedly in bed with his wife in his arms, sated in the aftermath of their intimacy, and they would share their day, dare to voice their dreams for the future or merely put the world to rights.

Such moments of it being just the two of them in the daylight hours were rarities and, when they did happen, they were highly prized – as it was on this day. With Marie-Celeste in the care of a neighbour and playing with her children, Porthos and Elodie had slipped away for a walk that had taken them to the Île de la Cité, where they had escaped the day's heat with a visit to the cooler confines of Notre Dame de Paris. They were returning home beyond the Louvre Palace via the Pont Neuf at the western end of the island, browsing the stalls that traded there and pausing to watch some jugglers, tumblers and musicians providing entertainment. There was a light-hearted, untroubled atmosphere amongst those who thronged the bridge and Elodie began to walk more slowly, reluctant for her excursion to end, her fingers stroking the fine shawl that Porthos had draped across her shoulders.

It had been a spontaneous purchase and she had gently chastised him for the unexpected expense but he had kissed her forehead lightly in response.

"I've wanted to give you so much but bein' away fightin' for so long stopped me from doin' it. I mean to put that right an' this is just the beginnin'."

"It is enough that you are with me, husband," Elodie said softly, slipping her small hand into his and feeling his strong fingers folding protectively around hers. "For that, I am thankful every day. I have already lost one good man to the war with Spain and I pray that I will never lose you the same way too."

"I will try my hardest never to put you through that, my love," he vowed and the pair fell silent, overwhelmed by the sudden serious turn in their conversation.

"This bridge is new, isn't it?" Elodie asked, changing the subject.

"New when compared with all the other bridges that cross the river. It's the first to be built in stone; so many of the others 'ave been washed away in the past, they needed somethin' that'd last," Porthos explained.

"Did you see it being built?" she asked innocently.

Porthos feigned a choking noise in mock indignation. "Just how old do you think I am?"

She laughed and wave a hand apologetically. "I did not mean any offence."

"None taken," he grinned. "Actually it was still bein' built when my Mother and I first came to Paris but I don't remember anythin' about that; I was too small but I do remember that fellow bein' put in place," and he gestured with a nod of the head towards the impressive statue that seemed to rise from the depths of the Seine just beyond the bridge.

Elodie studied the great bronze statue of an imposing man in armour mounted on horseback atop a marble pedestal. On his head he wore a laurel wreath whilst in his right hand he held something emblazoned with the same fleur de lis emblem that adorned her husband's uniform.

"Constance told me he was a King," she commented.

"Henri, grandfather of our young King Louis," Porthos explained. "His widow, Marie de Medici, 'ad it made on account of 'er grievin' when 'e was murdered. 'Bout the only decent thing she did; all she did after that was cause trouble for 'er son." He gave a deep laugh, "An' us, the musketeers."

"That sounds like another story," she hinted.

She loved it when he told her stories of the days when he and his brothers-in-arms had stood and fought alongside each other; she would rest in his arms as he recounted tales of derring-do and the mischief the four of them found, often inadvertently, and the headaches they had caused their long-suffering Captain. She had never had the opportunity to know Tréville but she knew that his death had been a devastating blow to the four men. It was hard to imagine their roguish behaviour now.

It was surely atypical of Aramis, the man who was the First Minister of France, although there was a certain inexplicable gleam in his eyes on occasions that spoke of his capacity for escapades. Then there was d'Artagnan, Captain of the musketeer regiment with all its associated obligations; it was difficult to accept that he could have been as reckless as her husband's anecdotes would have her believe. And as for Porthos himself? Well, he had so many responsibilities with his rank and the war, that the risks he had taken, including the excessive cheating at card games, seemed to be the traits of another person.

The war had been going on for over four years when she first met them in the woods where she and many women had taken refuge and created their own village. The men had come seeking one Grimaud, led by Athos who was a dark, brooding and serious man, battle weary from the war and the unrelenting fight against corruption in the nation's capital. Although she felt that she had never really got to know this intensely aloof and private individual, she had seen him at his most vulnerable, poisoned and fighting for his life and it had afforded her a glimpse of the deep bond that united these men, as the other three waited helplessly through the night until they were convinced that he was out of danger. His subsequent relinquishing of command and departure from Paris had left the remaining three feeling bereft and Porthos often spoke of him fondly in letters to her from the front.

"And it is one I will tell you in time," he promised her, dark eyes sparkling and face splitting into a broad grin.

"I will keep you to that," she responded.

Even as she gazed lovingly at him, she saw him freeze, his eyes looking past and fixing on something behind her. She tried to read his expression; it was quizzical, surprised even.

"What's the matter?" Elodie was alarmed by the sudden change in him and swiftly turned to determine what it was that had so abruptly grabbed his attention, but she saw nothing that could be described as out of the ordinary. All she could see were the many pedestrians strolling across the bridge and stopping to peruse the wares for sale on the plethora of stalls.

"I'm not sure …. Wait here," he ordered before he moved from her side, pushing his way quietly through the people, many moving voluntarily from his path, intimidated by his size and the impressive studded and heavily engraved leather uniform he wore that announced his status. It was, he had told her, a design that he had favoured when he first joined the ranks of the musketeers and he would keep it as such. Promotion and money had enabled him to demand something more flamboyant and ornate. A good head taller than those around him, Elodie was able to chart his progress amidst the throng to the far end of the bridge.

Curious, she ignored his instruction and moved to follow him, materialising at his side on the Right Bank's entrance to the bridge. He was looking in both directions repeatedly and turned a full circle as if ensuring that he had not missed anything.

He frowned when he saw her.

"I know you told me to remain there, but I was worried," she began defensively, pre-empting any comment that he might make. "What is it? What did you see?"

She laid a hand anxiously on his arm as he looked over her head and about them. Eventually, the tension that she felt beneath her fingers dissipated and he relaxed but his face showed something indeterminable. Defeat? Disappointment? Puzzlement? She could not tell.

"I don't know," he said, frustration evident in his tone. "I thought I saw someone I hadn't seen in a long while and …" His words trailed away. "Let's go home," he announced and Elodie knew that their excursion in the early summer sun was over, that whoever her husband thought that he had seen had so disquieted him that it had spoilt the outing, for he made no attempt to speak again as they walked and resolutely disregarded her futile attempts to engage him in further conversation.

For his part, Porthos had not shared with her the meeting that he had had with d'Artagnan and Aramis, where they realised that they had not heard from Athos for some time. Nor did he read to her that contents of the missive he had received from Aramis only that morning about the reception at the Palace the previous day. The information had been bleak as it outlined the behaviour and attitude of one Baron Desmarais and the unrest in Louviers. He knew the name well and had not needed clarification from his friend that it was the last know location of Athos and his family.

He had to admit that his absent brother was uppermost in his thoughts and had not known whether or not to believe Constance's accounts of a hooded figure. He was more likely to agree with d'Artagnan that it was the result of some fanciful notion.

That was until he saw for himself the darkly hooded figure on the bridge, who had been standing and watching him until he had started to move and then the person had skilfully lost himself in the crowd.

Porthos knew it was a male – gut instinct and the build informed his perception, that and his reluctant agreement with Constance. This person was of Athos' height and swathed in a long, dark cloak that must have been far too heavy and warm for the current weather conditions, but he moved in a manner that was achingly familiar.

Why then did Athos – for Porthos was convinced that it was he – abjure their company and seek so vigilantly to keep his identity hidden? If he needed help, why did he not make any approach? Why did he not speak?

Porthos was so lost in his own thoughts that he did not feel the gentle touch of the arm that linked through his, did not hear the soft tones of the worried woman by his side as she sought to divert him from what troubled him, and did not appear to even remember her existence. It was strangely reassuring to know that the instinct he had relied upon for years where the others were concerned had not deserted him, even though circumstances had separated them. His brother was in trouble and needed him, even if it seemed that he was being his usual bone-headed self and would not come straight out and ask for it.

II

That same night, Musketeer Brujon was celebrating his birthday. At twenty-one, he was still painfully young and, just as d'Artagnan had experienced problems, he also seemed incapable of growing the typical musketeer facial hair. Instead he sported an untidy fuzz that at least marked the progress from the smooth, unblemished skin of his cadet days. It was ironic for, returning from the front in the company of General Porthos, he was now regarded by the recruits in the garrison as being a seasoned, experienced soldier. And so he was as he kept them spellbound whilst he regaled them with stories of the war most nights in the Wren, the closest tavern to the garrison and the favoured haunt of many of the musketeers.

There was a slightly higher than usual number of them gathered in the place this night to ply him with drinks, beg him for more tales and encourage each other in games of silly recklessness.

"At least they aren't shooting melons from each other's heads," d'Artagnan muttered to the young musketeer at his side. When a puzzled frown was his only response, the Captain sighed regretfully. "No matter, I was thinking of the past."

That, he thought sadly, was exactly what it was – the past. Glancing around, he realised that there was no-one present who knew those days, when Porthos would celebrate his birthday – or anyone's, for that matter – by shooting a melon from Aramis' head. Athos said he only ever made the shot when he was in his cups and he had never dared such an escapade when stone-cold sober.

The old guard that remembered that time were largely gone. Too many had fallen in the battle with Spain, were invalided out of the regiment with horrific wounds or otherwise retired. Some survivors had been re-assigned to other regiments when Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan had initially returned to Paris with Aramis to help Tréville combat the corruption of Governor Feron, half-brother to the King, and the evil that was Grimaud. The recruits, training hard to join their colleagues along one of the fronts, had been decimated when the garrison was destroyed and d'Artagnan, as the new Captain, had been faced with creating a new regiment from almost nothing. Some seasoned veterans had been drafted in from elsewhere to train the cadets that were now to form the people's musketeers, renamed by the Queen as she acted as regent for her young son following Tréville's untimely demise.

It was strange to think that the more 'experienced' musketeers were much younger than d'Artagnan had been when he gained his commission, and that although the stories of Captain Tréville and the four _Inseparables_ lived on by word of mouth, no-one remained who had seen them all together in their heyday. They were the stuff of legend, the idea of the quartet loved and revered by the current cohort of soldiers, who were unable to make the visual and emotional link between the men of the stories and the reality of the three whom most of them knew. Had their Captain really accomplished that? The First Minister surely could not have been so great a marksman? Was the General really capable of doing that to a foe with his bare hands?

And who was the enigma that was called Athos, the musketeer captain who had single-handedly fought with Grimaud to the death? In their minds, he had taken on the mythical status of a Beowulf capable of defeating a monster in any guise; a warrior so great that, despite mysteriously disappearing, he would answer the call of his brothers should a new Grendel arise and threaten the safety of Paris and France.

D'Artagnan knew how they talked, had tried to correct them but to no avail. Some of the tales had been enlarged upon so that he was hard pressed to recognise the original event and their misdeeds, likewise exaggerated, had further added to their heroic reputation.

His thoughts merely served to depress d'Artagnan and dampened his mood. He was not fit company for a celebration. He seldom ventured to any of the city's taverns any more, nor did he make a habit of drinking with or socialising with his men – there were standards to maintain – and he had only agreed to attend this evening because Constance insisted that he accept Brujon's invitation.

"You have not had the opportunity for an informal evening in a long while," she coaxed him. "Go with them."

"I would restrict their enjoyment," he objected.

He had never known Tréville visit a tavern with a large group of musketeers. The officer would partake of an ale or wine with some of them within the confines of the garrison refectory or, more often, open a bottle of brandy in his office to share with one or more of his _Inseparables._ The one time d'Artagnan could recall Athos drinking with the men in Paris had been at Tréville's wake in the moments before Grimaud launched his final, devastating assault upon the musketeers.

"Nonsense," Constance had chided him. "If Brujon thought that, he would not have invited you. He wants you there and so do the others. Besides, you do not have to stay out all hours." She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "You are an old, married man now with a heavily pregnant wife who requires your presence."

So he was here, in the Wren and supping a strong ale. Even the tavern had changed. Badly damaged in the explosion after Tréville's funeral, it had subsequently been rebuilt. There was a new landlord – his predecessor had died in the blast – and he had forged a fresh relationship with the men that no longer included d'Artagnan or his brothers. Even the corner where they used to sit on innumerable occasions was unrecognisable and he suddenly felt an immense desolation.

He loved his wife passionately, without question, and he revelled in his current role, but he longed for the days when the four of them had gone on missions together, causing mayhem in their own inimitable style.

He missed those days and he desperately missed the men. Yes, he saw Porthos and Aramis regularly but it was not the same; it was not for the greater portion of any day. It was not riding side by side, camping beneath the stars, bickering or enjoying their brotherly banter, fighting a common enemy together. They had different responsibilities now although their code still held: all for one and one for all.

Except one was not there. Athos was not with them.

When he said goodbye, he vowed he would return and d'Artagnan had made himself a silent promise that he would keep his friend to that, but there had never been an idea of when, of how long they would have to wait for Athos to get whatever it was out of his system. Had it been immeasurable grief at the slaughter of Tréville? Was it a coming to terms with the obsession that had driven him to hunt Grimaud and the violent nature of the final victory? Had that, coupled with the after effects of four long years of leading men in war and seeing so many cut down finally taken its toll?

He had done it before, moved on when things had threatened to destroy him. When his beloved wife had murdered his brother and he had summarily had her hanged for her crime, he had turned his back on Pinon, his title and tenants and eventually arrived in Paris, an embittered, guilt-ridden and emotional cripple to all intents and purposes. D'Artagnan had not known him then but he had heard about that time from Aramis, Porthos and even Tréville, and he had seen for himself the repercussions when Athos had discovered, five years later, that she still lived and was determined to see him dead. So much had happened in the intervening years that had filled Athos with pain: his wife's ability to manipulate him; the tempestuous confusion of his feelings towards her; her blatantly adulterous yet temporary relationship with the King no less, and her restoration of Aramis to them at a time when he would most certainly have faced execution. They had come through that and many other trials and tribulations – until Tréville died and Athos had taken his revenge on Grimaud.

Had he left because he feared that his honour had also died that day? If so, he had been misguided, for he had been fighting for the safety of the child-King and France. It had been a battle for the end of corruption and the termination of hatred. Perhaps, when he surveyed the ruin that had once been the garrison, counted the burned and broken bodies and heard the cries of too many injured boy-musketeers, it was enough and the normally calm, strategic mind could focus no more.

Or perhaps it was simply Sylvie, who had assailed the fortifications he had built around his broken and fearful heart. She had stood firm in the face of his repeated acceptance and rejection of her, resolutely chipping away at his defences, weakening him …. Until the day his wife returned. Then, and only then, had he been forced to make a life-changing decision, settling for the woman who loved him unconditionally, who carried his child. He had, surprisingly to his brothers, chosen a life beyond Paris, beyond soldiering, intent upon creating (or perhaps recreating) what he thought he would have had with another woman in another lifetime so many years before. Now, though, he did not have the demands of centuries, the trappings of a title or the burden of an estate.

Was it enough? His tone rather than the content of his letters always reinforced the brotherhood the four of them shared but up until his last letter, he had made no mention of returning to Paris, seemingly content with the life he led. Why had he fallen silent of late? What had happened to him, Sylvie and their son? Had they been caught up in the troubles spoken of by Desmarais?

D'Artagnan raised the tankard to his lips as he leaned against the bar, eyes constantly alert to any signs of trouble, watching the young men who were in his charge, reluctant to curb their exuberance but ready to intervene should their behaviour get out of hand as a result of too much drink.

Soldiers in their cups were renowned for their arguments and their fights. The mere thought had more memories clamouring to the surface. D'Artagnan and his brothers had goaded first the Cardinal's and then Rochefort's Red Guard on enough occasions, but Athos had always ensured that damages were paid for when they were responsible and sometimes when they were not, those times when they were silently standing to attention in Tréville's office as he launched a tirade at them for their most recent scrap with members of the other regiment.

The memory brought a whimsical smile to his face and he took another mouthful of ale, glancing as he did so towards the farthest corner of the room and spying, for the first time, a figure sitting alone, huddled deep in the shadows but carefully watching proceedings. D'Artagnan froze, hardly daring to breathe even as he studied the cloaked form, convincing himself that his recent memories of Athos were influencing him. The hood was pulled up and forward, concealing any identifying features but the hand … he would know it anywhere for he had seen it so many times in just such a situation as this. The way those long fingers curled around a goblet of wine, just as they did now. It was unmistakable.

He spilt his ale, slamming it down on the surface beside him as he pushed off from the bar and tried to work his way through the musketeers towards the corner.

"Athos"" he shouted, keen to make himself heard above the hubbub of conversation around him. "Athos!"

Surprised cadets, recognizing the name, followed his gaze to the corner and struggled to open up a pathway for him when it became evident that he needed to pass between them in a hurry.

The figure stood and was gone, leaving out of a back entrance, and when d'Artagnan succeeded in reaching the narrow alley, it was only to find it empty. He ran both ways to inspect the thoroughfares linked by the alleyway but of the mysterious figure there was no sign. It was as if he had melted into the very air itself.

Hands on hips and exhaling loudly with frustration, d'Artagnan was then startled when the door was flung back on its hinges to reveal Brujon, who had witnessed his rapid exit.

"Sir? Captain?" the young man asked worriedly. "Is everything alright?"

D'Artagnan slid an arm around the shoulder of the other musketeer as if to guide him back to the centre of the celebration, but his eyes still scanned the alleyway in both directions, as if expecting the figure to reveal himself.

"I wish I knew, Brujon," he sighed. "I wish I knew."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **The Pont Neuf , begun in 1578 to relieve traffic congestion on the old Pont Notre-Dame, was eventually inaugurated in 1607 by Henri IV. It has five arches to the Left Bank and seven to the Right Bank. Not only was it the first to be built of stone, but it was also the first not to have houses built on it.**_

 _ **Henri IV was assassinated in 1610 and the equestrian statue was commissioned by Marie de Medici in 1614. Giambologna died before its completion, the task falling to his assistant, Pietro Tacca. It was erected on its pedestal in 1618 and appeared to rise from the Seine on its own foundations that abutted the bridge. Destroyed in 1792 during the Revolution, a replica was made from the original cast and restored in 1818. A natural sandbank and additional work extended the island so that the statue is now on land.**_

 _ **On its base were four elongated, muscular shapes in two pairs – captives with their hands bound behind their backs and representing the four enslaved corners of the world symbolising the French King's domination over the globe. The original figures were spared to 'pay tribute to France's first antiquities' and are now housed in the Louvre.**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Dear all, I love reading your musings and speculations. Thank you for taking the time to share them. Which of you has the right idea or is at least close at the moment? Special thanks to Justaguest, Beeblegirl and Guest for your comments as I can't message you directly.**_

 _ **I have surprised myself (and you probably) that this chapter followed the plan and fell into place so easily and quickly. Should have probably spent the time doing more work related things but I shall worry about that tomorrow; after all, 'tomorrow is another day!'**_

 _ **So is it Athos? If so, what is he doing and why?**_

CHAPTER 5

I

"Do you know anything about the man who was sitting in the corner over there? Have you seen him before?" d'Artganan demanded of Filipe, the Wren's landlord. It was the first thing he had done or said once he had gone back inside the building.

Filipe Pascal was a squat, square-shaped man with strands of lank, greasy hair plastered to his scalp and an unfortunately permanent scowl fixed upon his face that lied about his mood, for he was generally an amiable man, who chatted readily with his patrons. Unlike so many of his peers, he took pride in his establishment and endeavoured to keep it and himself clean; he at least sported a fresh apron over his clothing every day and, as d'Artagnan spoke to him, was in the process of mopping up the ale spillage caused by him a few minutes earlier.

"'E's been in 'ere sev'ral nights," Filipe confirmed, eager to co-operate with the Musketeer captain. He nodded to the spot where the hooded figure had been sitting. "Always picks that seat facin' the door, watchin' an' lookin' as if 'e's waitin' on someone in partic'lar. Drinks a fair deal, always red wine, an' always 'as the coin to pay for it. Never causes any trouble but does seem to be interested in the doin's of the young musketeers."

D'Artagnan could not help thinking that he would be happy if some of his cadets could learn to deliver such an observant, succinct report.

"Does he speak to anyone?"

Filipe's usual frown deepened as he thought hard. "Never. I've tried sayin' hello to 'im but 'e only nods by way of greetin'. Only words to come out of 'im are usually 'red wine' an' a 'please' and 'thank you'. Struck me as to how 'e's always polite."

"Describe him," d'Artagnan urged.

"Can't," Filipe declared. "'E always sits there with that 'ood up. 'E must be 'ot in that cloak but 'e keeps it wrapped around 'im an 'e stays in the shadows as if 'e doesn't want to get noticed. I reckon 'e must be disfigured in some way."

D'Artagnan sighed. Filipe had arrived some weeks after the explosion that had wrecked the tavern and killed its previous proprietor and it was also after Athos had left. The landlord would not have recognised the former captain.

II

Constance made her way towards the gate that opened onto the garrison cemetery. Years before, it has been open, uneven ground behind the main building. With its coarse grass, it was otherwise bare and unimposing as a last resting place for the men who had paid the ultimate sacrifice in their service to King and country. With the rebuilding of the garrison and the frightening increase of the plain, wooden crosses that acted as markers, she had been the one to appeal to d'Artagnan.

"We need to tidy up the cemetery. It is the least we can do for those men and boys; it is not respectful as it is. It should be fenced off and made into a formal place, perhaps with some flowers. You and Aramis have pleaded long and hard with the Queen to allow Tréville to be buried here but his massive tomb just highlights the neglect of this graveyard. We have a care for all of them, not just him; they deserve that."

He could not refuse her and she had set to work supervising men who had volunteered in their off-duty hours to construct a low wooden fence that marked the boundary of the cemetery. Where necessary, unused ground had been levelled, grass was kept short and planting ensured a colourful array of blooms from Spring to mid-Autumn.

She clutched the posy of flowers she had brought with her to lay on the huge, grey marble tomb. It looked so out of place amidst the simple, dark wooden crosses and she knew the man would have hated the ostentatious show but the Queen had insisted. Tréville was no longer a musketeer when he died; he had been Minister for War for over four years and then Regent, losing his life to protect the five-year old King Louis. It was enough that she had relented so that he could be buried with his men, but the tomb had to befit his status and she would compromise no further. Even Aramis' charm had been unsuccessful in this matter.

Constance made visits to the cemetery on a weekly basis, visiting each of the graves in turn – even those of men she never knew - but more often than not pausing to spare a word for her 'sleeping boys' as she called them, those young cadets callously killed in the fight against Grimaud and Marcheaux. She would often find solace in sitting by Tréville's tomb to 'make her report', doing it more frequently in the latter stages of her pregnancy. D'Artagnan knew of her whimsical visits for he had caught her there on more than one occasion, but he never attempted to deter her. Today was different though, more serious, for it was the third anniversary of Tréville's death and she wanted him to know that she remembered, that he would never be forgotten, and she needed to tell him about Athos for, with the sightings by Porthos and d'Artagnan, she refused to believe it was anyone else. D'Artagnan had invited her to accompany him later when he planned to visit the tomb with Porthos and Aramis, the latter always bringing flowers from the Queen. Constance had resolutely refused.

"It is important that you three go and pay your respects together. You have your own memories of him and must share them; this day is special to you. You do not need me there. I will pay my own respects and then you will bring the others back for dinner, and we will all raise a glass to him in tribute. I shall also pour one for your absent brother."

As she passed through the gate, she was thinking of the meal she had left slowly cooking and so she did not immediately see the figure kneeling at the tomb, back towards her and left hand outstretched to its smooth, cold surface. She stopped in her tracks, eyes welling up at the sight of the lone mourner. Head bowed, his shoulders visibly shook and she felt uncomfortable, a voyeur on the man's grief.

Stepping forward, her skirts rustled in the grass, alerting him to her presence and he was on his feet in an instant, although he did not turn to her.

"Athos, wait. Please," she called softly, not wanting to alarm him even as she dared to assume that it was him.

But he was gone, moving away from her in long strides towards the far corner of the cemetery where he easily climbed over the fence and was gone.

Uneasy, she approached the place where he had been kneeling, saw the indentations he had left in the grass. Then she laid her hand on the spot where his had rested; anything that might close the physical distance between her and the man she counted as a close friend, anything that might help her understand the strange behaviour of one who had never been known for his predictability.

Laying down the posy upon a ledge cut into the carefully sculpted marble, she silently mouthed her own words of remembrance and offered up a prayer as tears slowly tracked their way down her cheeks. If she still missed Tréville with this intensity, how much worse was it for her husband and his brothers?

Composing herself, she was just about to leave when she spied a small black velvet bag nestled in the slightly longer grass against the base of the tomb. At first, she thought the recent visitor must have dropped it as he knelt in respect but then she realised it would have been further back from the tomb. No, it had been placed there deliberately, partially hidden so that it would not be easily seen. It was uncomfortable bending to retrieve it but when she had succeeded, she loosened the drawstring to open the bag and tipped its contents into her open palm.

It was a beautiful time piece on a chain, ornately engraved with creeping vines and a small bird.

III

Aramas turned it over in his hands, recognising the piece immediately and desperately wishing that it had a duplicate that was also protected by a black velvet bag. His emotions were already raw from his visit to Tréville's tomb. It was always a difficult time and he and d'Artagnan had supported each other through the two previous anniversaries but this was the first time that Porthos had been with them and he had faced his loss anew.

He had witnessed the first musket ball hit its target, seen Tréville stumble but maintain his feet as he thrust the child-King up onto the horse and into Porthos' arms. Then the big musketeer had heard the last order he would ever receive from the great man and had obeyed with a reluctant and breaking heart as he was forced to act upon the vow he had taken when he received his commission. His duty to King and country had to supersede all else: the personal, the brotherhood, the loyalty, the friendship. He was making his own sacrifice even as Tréville accepted his proffered weapon. The instinct of the soldier took control and the former musketeer Captain staggered as he turned and strode purposefully towards the oncoming enemy, firing to buy Porthos extra time to get the King to safety, even as the fatal bullets tore into his body and he crumpled to his knees. As he spurred on his horse, Porthos saw Aramis and d'Artagnan break into a run, their faces etched with unspeakable horror, and heard the primeval roar of denial that he knew had been ripped from Athos.

They eventually returned from the cemetery much later than expected, subdued and red-eyed, their grief all too fresh, so that Constance had been hesitant to relate what had transpired during her own visit to the tomb but she sat them down, plied them with wine and told them of her experience. Then she produced the little black bag.

Porthos and d'Artagnan were totally bemused as they passed it between themselves, never having seen it before, but Aramis seemed almost afraid to touch it and had reluctantly accepted it. All he had to do now was to open it to confirm his suspicions. His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the clasp. His breath shuddered unevenly as he read the inscription.

 _To my beloved son._

He closed his eyes and bowed his head as he struggled to control the warring emotions and thoughts that invaded his mind.

Porthos, alarmed by his reaction, seized the piece again, read the inscription for himself and handed it to d'Artagnan.

"What is it? What does it mean?" he growled. "Whose is it?"

"It belongs to Athos," Aramis said so softly that they leaned forward to hear him.

"Are you sure? I never saw him with this," d'Artagnan queried.

"Oh it's his," Aramis reassured him.

"I didn't know he had kept anything from his father."

"He didn't. It wasn't from his father," Aramis answered cryptically.

"But the inscription said …" d'Artagnan's voice trailed off as he looked from one to the other of the men.

"'To my beloved son,'" Porthos quoted, his eyes never leaving those of Aramis. "It was from someone else." He still gazed at the First Minister. "And I'm guessin' that someone was Tréville."

Aramis nodded slowly.

"How do you know?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis sighed. "Remember when his tenants drugged and kidnapped Athos and took him back to his estate? The three of us and Tréville searched Athos' room for any clues. That's when you, d'Artagnan, found all those unopened letters from Pinon and were busy reading them."

Porthos and d'Artagnan listened with rapt attention.

"I was still going through the items in his chest and it was at the bottom beneath clean clothing. Obviously I took it out to see what it was, opened it and read the inscription. I happened to look up and saw Tréville just standing there, staring at me with a strange expression on his face. I knew there and then that he was the one responsible for giving the time piece to Athos.

"Weeks later, I saw it again when you three moved into my room during Savatier's attacks. It was when we had to share rooms to create space for musketeer families who came into the garrison for protection. Anyway, I went back to the room to collect something and Athos was sitting there winding it. I didn't reveal that I already knew of its existence but said something about it being a nice piece and that I was unaware that he had it. You know what he was like. I was convinced that he wasn't going to say anything, but then he surprised me and suddenly poured out the whole story. Tréville had given it to him to thank him for the rescue when Richelieu and Delacroix had worked together to take Tréville prisoner.

"I could tell from the way Athos spoke just what it meant to him and he was still incredulous that Tréville had seen fit to gift it to him; it had been in his family for three generations. I don't think even then I managed to persuade Athos that he thoroughly deserved it."

The three men fell silent, absorbing the detail and the implication of the tale Aramis had just recounted.

"So it was Athos I saw in the cemetery and the market place," Constance breathed, happy that there was a confirmation of her sightings. The men had forgotten that she was even sitting there, so engrossed were they with their thoughts.

"Had to be," Porthos agreed, "an' now d'Artagnan an' I 'ave seen him too."

"But I haven't," Aramis pointed out with an inexplicable sadness, "but I have been confined within the palace recently so I imagine that the opportunity for him hasn't arisen. I must rectify that quickly."

They continued to revisit the events surrounding all the sightings as Constance busied herself serving food and encouraged them to come and sit at the table.

Even as they ate, it was clear that they were going over familiar ground and asking the same questions of themselves; primarily why Athos had not approached any of them, for they were convinced that he was in need of help.

"If the time piece meant so much to him," d'Artagnan began, helping himself to more of the beef dish that Constance had prepared, "why did Athos leave it at Tréville's tomb? It's almost as if he were giving it back."

It was a speculative, innocent remark as d'Artagnan explored different ideas aloud but it was enough.

"Dear God, no!" Aramis exclaimed and knocked over a full goblet of red wine. He leaped up, pushing back his chair and the four of them busied themselves with cloths in an attempt to mop up the mess. It was a few minutes later that they resumed their seats whilst he apologised profusely. His face was ashen and it could not be just because of spilt wine.

"What's the matter?" Porthos asked him, concerned.

D'Artagnan refilled his goblet but the renewed tremor in the First Minister's hand as he accepted it was obvious to all.

"Athos _is_ giving the time piece back," Aramis said, his voice little more than a whisper.

"But why?" Porthos persisted.

"Knowing him as we do, there are two possibilities. He could believe that he is not worthy of owning it any more. He has done, or plans to do, something that he sees is without honour."

At his words, both Porthos and d'Artagnan began to object loudly but his raised hand stilled them.

"Therefore he is returning it to the man who gave it to him, who had so much faith in him; the man who, to him, epitomised all that was honourable. In his mind, he no longer deserves it."

The four of them looked around the table at each other, stunned and discomforted by the knowledge that that was exactly the way that Athos' mind would work.

"I don't like that possibility," Porthos stated at last. "What's the other one?"

Aramis took a deep breath. "I think you're going to like this one even less."

"Well?" d'Artagnan prompted.

"In his own way, and for whatever reason, Athos is saying goodbye," Aramis explained.

"But why? Where's he going? He had already said his goodbyes when he left with Sylvie. Where is she in all of this?" Constance did not understand, did not want to and the stillness of the men and their silence following Aramis' pronouncement frightened her.

"You're right, this idea is the worst," Porthos said, taking one of Constance's hands in his, "an' I hate to admit it, but it makes sense."

"How? How does it make sense?" d'Artagnan demanded, but it was clear from the expression on his face that he knew exactly what Aramis was suggesting.

"Think about it," Aramis went on. "He has seen Constance more than once, you two," and he nodded towards his friends, "and paid a visit to Tréville's tomb on the third anniversary of his death to return the time piece. Athos has made sure that each of you has seen him watching, you have looked directly at him. There is nothing accidental in this; he's planned it."

"But you haven't see him yet," Constance reminded him.

"Thank goodness for that," Aramis replied, "because that gives us an opportunity of finding him first."

"What do you mean?" d'Artagnan asked warily.

"We have to make a plan – now. I fear that we will only have the one opportunity. I have not been out and about this past week or more so he has probably been watching for me but without success. I will make myself visible to the people of Paris, draw him out and we will be ready."

"We're laying a trap for him," d'Artagnan concluded, unsure as to whether he supported the notion.

Aramis could see his hesitation. "We have to. Once I have seen him, his farewells are complete. Whatever he is involved in, one thing is clear. Athos expects to die."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Just in case there are any new readers out there, this chapter does reference some of my other writing:**_

' _ **Renegade' – the time piece**_

' _ **Retribution' – Savatier and his machinations**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Oh my word, you all continue to astound me! Thank you SO much for the feedback, the private messages and incredible support you are giving me with this story. Thank you to those who swell the 'follow' and 'favourite' numbers and especial thanks to those who comment but to whom I cannot write a separate message.**_

 _ **What is Athos playing at? What is Aramis' plan? Can they find their brother before it is too late and he is gone once more, perhaps for ever?**_

 _ **Perhaps this paragraph will begin to give some answers. Profuse apologies for any errors that may have slipped through. I have proof-read a couple of times but an action-packed weekend away is to blame for any that remain.**_

 _ **Until the next time,**_

 _ **V**_

CHAPTER 6

I

"And you call this a plan?" Porthos was incredulous when Aramis had concluded outlining his idea.

"Can you think of anything better?" the First Minister countered.

Porthos frowned, giving the proposal some brief thought. "Well, no."

"Exactly," Aramis was pleased with himself.

"But there is so much that could go wrong with this."

"I think it is admirable," d'Artagnan was making it clear from the outset what he thought of the suggestion, "and in view of the fact that we have little else to go on, I vote we use Aramis' idea. If you advise us as to what could possible go wrong, then perhaps we can avoid it," he challenged, albeit with a smile on his face.

"Athos could decide that 'e's quite 'appy just to see you and you don't 'ave to see 'im. Fact is, he could've done that already."

Aramis shook his head vehemently. "He would not do that; he would have me see him like the rest of you."

Porthos sighed. "His circumstances might've changed an' now 'e's no longer able to do what 'e was doin' before."

It was now d'Artagnan who disagreed. "He would find some way, somehow. If he truly is saying some kind of farewell for whatever reason, he would complete what he set out to do. I'll admit I'm not too sure that I hold with that idea but until he is in a position to explain himself properly, I'm not prepared to take a risk."

"'Ow many days are you goin' to keep this up then?" Porthos asked.

Aramis grew suddenly serious. "For however long it takes. We have to find and speak with him."

"Well, I don't mind sayin' I don't like it," Porthos added. "This is Athos we're talkin' about. 'E's not stupid. He'll know it's a trap an' 'e'll not just walk into it!"

"We'll see," Aramis said smugly and raising his wine goblet. "Care to place a bet on that?"

II

In fact, walking straight into the 'trap' was exactly what Athos did three days later which, had they stopped to consider it carefully, should have been a further indicator as to how his mind was working – or not.

The First Minister adopted a new routine which made him unavailable to meet with his secretary, advisors or even the Queen from mid-morning onwards as he formed a habit of riding out from the Louvre to Notre Dame Cathedral in the company of a small contingent of eight Musketeers under the leadership of Brujon. Aramis was strangely adamant that he would trust no-one else but even they were not party to all the information and, by the third morning, some of the escort were beginning to grumble about the seemingly mundane task.

Firstly, they would be inspected by d'Artagnan and, when he approved of their appearance, they would ride for the Palace where the Minister habitually kept them waiting for fifteen minutes before he deigned to put in an appearance and would mount up, Brujon at his side, as three Musketeers rode before him, the rest forming a rearguard.

They were all oblivious to the finer points of the subterfuge whereby the stable lad produced d'Artagnan's saddled mount as soon as the others had left the garrison. As they disappeared, General Porthos would appear and the two officers and old friends would follow the previous riders through the gateway and immediately turn in the opposite direction, apparently engaging in a supposed new routine of a morning ride. The fact that he was not alone appeased some of his men who would have readily accompanied him but it did nothing to dispel their curiosity at the sudden desire for scheduled exercise, until one of them ventured to suggest that he needed to spend some time in reflection and gaining advice about impending fatherhood. It could not be easy bringing a child into the world of the garrison and all that it entailed. This was, perhaps, his moment of idiosyncratic behaviour; after all, they had witnessed several extreme examples from his wife in recent weeks!

They would leave their horses tethered a couple of streets from the Cathedral and then cover the rest of the journey on foot so that they could be safely ensconced at the Cathedral well before Aramis, secreting themselves between the shadowed columns. The First Minister would make his way slowly and publicly down the nave, pausing to speak with some of the capital's citizens who were overwhelmed by the sudden opportunity to meet and speak with him. So unexpected were the first two visits that they did not find their voice for any grievances until it was too late and he had disappeared into a side chapel for private prayers, the musketeers taking up a temporary guard outside. Minutes later, he summarily dismissed them and they left him there, withdrawing to wait some distance away by the main entrance.

On the third morning, events unfolded as per usual until Aramis began wandering through the nave. As the poorer city folk looked as if they were about to crowd him, the musketeers were immediately there to protect him, effectively creating a cordon around him.

"Brujon," he admonished gently, "these are the King's people and I must pay them heed. Let them approach."

With a deferential nod and a sweeping gesture towards the other soldiers, they relaxed their stance just as Aramis stopped and pulled out a small, leather pouch, retrieving some coins from it which he then proceeded to distribute. As the recipients jostled each other to clasp at his hands in gratitude, he saw, in his peripheral vision, a dark-cloaked figure moving along the far side of the nave and likewise halt, seeking some refuge behind a column.

He smiled to himself and made his way eastwards towards the side chapel he had begun to frequent, pausing to speak to those people he passed. It was all a ploy so that he could monitor the progress of the figure for whom he was waiting and it was reassuring to note that the person kept pace with him.

"You have no need to remain," he instructed Brujon as the musketeer stood to one side of the entrance to the dimly lit chapel.

"If you're sure …"Brujon began.

Aramis smiled and drew aside his own robe to reveal the sheathed dagger attached to his belt.

"I am sure," he reassured the younger man. "This is never far from my person and it is not so many years since I was a musketeer that I have forgotten how to use it. I am in no danger."

Brujon flushed a deep pink at the reminder that the First Minister was far from being a soft, inexperienced individual from amongst the wealthier, more comfortable, upper classes.

"I didn't mean …." Brujon turned an even darker shade, feeling incompetent at his inability to frame a complete, communicative sentence.

Aramis merely laughed softly and clapped a conciliatory hand on his shoulder. "I know you didn't. All I need is for you to leave me as you have done before. Wait for me in the usual place; I do not know how long I shall be today."

"Minister," Brujon acknowledged with a dip of the head.

Aramis watched as he turned smartly on his heels and marched away, gesturing for the other musketeers to depart with him. Once alone he took a deep breath.

"The way is clear for you to appear now, Athos," he whispered and, picking up a taper, he used it to light a fresh candle before kneeling at the low, wooden altar rail, his head bowed in supplication.

Had he not been concentrating, conscious of the slightest sound, he would have missed it, so light was the footfall: Athos had lost none of his skills.

Aramis did not move and, when he broke the silence, his tone was soft, warm.

"Why the need for skulking in the shadows, my friend? You know I would never do anything to hurt you. All I ask is that you let me look upon you."

He waited for what seemed like for ever and he struggled to still his fiercely beating heart. Why was Athos so hesitant? Then he heard another soft footstep and an almost indeterminate brushing of fabric against a harder surface. The cloak brushing against stone or wood perhaps?

"I am going to turn round slowly," Aramis warned him. It was a move calculated to reassure the most skittish young horse and the First Minister found it hard to believe he was contemplating a similar action with one whom he had long regarded as a best friend. He eased himself to his feet, every gesture unhurried as he gradually revolved, dark eyes eager to gaze upon the man whom he had not seen for three long years.

To the untrained eye, any formal identification would have been impossible for the hood was pulled low, the jaw and ragged beard all that were visible but Aramis would have known Athos if he had been swathed from head to foot in sacking, for the height and stance were unmistakable.

Aramis heard and felt his own breath hitch as a wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm him. All he wanted to do was reach for the man and pull him into a tight embrace, even as he planted a kiss of greeting on the familiar brow, but he sensed, somewhat painfully, that such an action would be unwelcome right now. The tension between the two men in the stillness and silence of the chapel was almost palpable; this was not how Aramis had envisaged their reunion after three years apart.

"Will you not let me see you?" he asked in little more than a whisper, unable to hide his troubled expression.

There was hesitation but eventually, the hands came up and pushed back the hood.

It was all Aramis could do not to gasp aloud with shock for, standing in front of him, was not the happy, optimistic brother who had left Paris with so much hope for a new chapter of adventures, not least with the woman he loved and who carried his child. He was not even the Athos of his troubled, early days in Paris, when he sought solace in the depth of a wine glass.

This was an emaciated, gaunt stranger with sunken, dull green eyes that held nothing of their former humour or scathing mockery. Deeply shadowed, they were the eyes of a man who was either desperately sick or who had given up the will to be amongst the living, of someone who walked the earth as an uneasy phantasm, a mere shell of the man he once was. His hair was longer than Aramis had ever seen and hung in lank, greasy, untidy waves about his grey face. Athos had always been very pale but the current hue to his features was ghastly, unhealthy, and whether it was from illness, exhaustion or grime, Aramis could not tell. Even his beard was unkempt and lacked contour and the dusty cloak ill-concealed the state of the clothing beneath.

In the days when Athos would have suffered a fearsome hangover, he would never have appeared in the garrison in so dire a state of presentation; Tréville would never have let him get away with it. In his Musketeer leathers, he was always immaculate and stood proud and tall, and there was never any question as to how he would have probably looked in his days as a comte from an old, well-established French family. Aramis had heard his brothers' tales of existence at the front line and he would not believe that Athos could ever have allowed himself to look like this when conditions in the war against Spain had been at their worst. He knew they had lost spare clothing in a fire; food supplies had been long overdue and, once, they had gone nearly three weeks without the opportunity of bathing when they were in an area of drought and water had been severely rationed. D'Artagnan and Porthos had been quick to tell him then that Athos had always maintained standards the best he could for he believed that he had an example to set. There was not always time, means or even someone with a barber's skills to be employed but there was an explanation for that at least – namely war.

What on earth had happened to reduce him to this?

"Brother," Aramis breathed and took a step forward.

Almost immediately, Athos took a step backwards to maintain the distance between them and raised a hand in an unmistakable signal that the First Minister was not to advance.

"I should not be here. We must not be seen together," Athos stated. His face might have remained impassive but the clipped enunciation and controlled tone were the Athos of old, the one with the high, impenetrable wall that he had carefully and deliberately erected around himself.

"And why is that?" Aramis tried to sound conversational but he was afraid that at any second, Athos would disappear as would a vapour in the sun's rays.

The former musketeer emitted a low, bitter chuckle. "You must not be seen to consort with a wanted man."

"I will judge those I should see and those I should avoid," Aramis commented, attempting to reassure his friend. "Why are you wanted anyway?"

"It would appear that I am a murderer at least twice over," Athos said, his voice cold, still devoid of emotion.

"And are you? A murderer, I mean?"

"That would rest entirely on a man's point of view." So, they were to embark on a game of logic and a verbal sparring. In times past, Athos had the ability to be the victor without really trying.

"And what is your opinion?" Aramis asked, demonstrating that he understood and accepted those very rules.

"My opinion counts for very little these days," Athos countered.

"I disagree. I would very much like to hear it."

Even as Aramis awaited a response, Athos faltered and suddenly swayed unsteadily. The Minister, perplexed by the turn of events, was prepared to reach out to him but the former captain of the King's musketeers gave a low moan.

"No, come no closer. I should not have come!" His voice had taken on a new edge, the pain raw and undisguised.

"But you _have_ come," Aramis stressed, wondering if his brother had sustained some kind of injury, "and visited all of us, Tréville included. To me, that speaks of a brother seeking help so I ask again, what is your opinion?"

"I look upon it as justice, justice for a crime …." His raised voice broke off as he stumbled and struggled to regain his footing.

"Athos," Aramis began, almost begging for there was obviously something seriously wrong.

"I must go. It is not safe to be here for any length of time."

"I don't agree. 'F you ain't safe 'ere with us, you'll never be safe anywhere," a deep voice rumbled from the entrance to the chapel.

Athos managed a startled half turn, a desperate cry escaping him.

"You have tricked me, all of you." Now he could see d'Artagnan emerging from the shadows as well. He backed away from them across the hard, tiled floor but the three relentlessly followed, moving effortlessly after him.

"Of course we did," Aramis explained, "because we had to. These sightings we have had of you. Did you honestly think we would not have been concerned? Something is seriously wrong and we are here for you. We would stand together. 'All for one!' Remember? That is not something that has faded with time. You need us, Athos, whether you like it or not, and we are not going anywhere nor, I may add, are you until you have told us what is happening."

Athos stood, reeling, even as he looked from one to the other of them and saw their expressions of undying loyalty and unconditional love for him. His breath caught on a sob.

"I would bring you shame," he groaned.

"Never," said d'Artagnan fervently, speaking for the first time since he had entered the chapel. "You will talk to us and we will hear your story."

The three of them watched him warily. Even now, despite their reassurances, he was like a cornered animal and they would not have been surprised if he had made a rush at them, trying to break through the protective half-circle they formed around him. It was clear that he did not see it as such; that to him it was intimidating but they had no further chance to convince him otherwise for his body chose that moment to desert him and join ranks with them.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, the abrupt movement proved too much. Gasping, his hand lunged out to grasp Aramis' arm but he failed to make contact, his fingers flailing at the air as his legs buckled. All three leaped forward as they saw his tenuous hold on consciousness waver but it was Porthos who was fastest, who caught him in strong fists by his clothing and upper arm as his eyes rolled in his head and he sagged limply, head lolling forward. Aramis moved to help and, together, they lowered him to the floor, Porthos cradling his head in the crook of an arm.

"So," Porthos said, looking at his brothers, "what do we do now?"


	7. Chapter 7

_**Oh my, I have LOVED your comments on the previous chapter. Thank you so much. This is a little chapter; I've stopped it short of where I had originally planned bit I give it to you so that you don't have to wait too long. Hope it will wet the appetite a little! Apologies for any poor proof-reading - got to dash = a picnic with colleagues and an open air theatre production of 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' in the grounds of an Elizabethan manor house. It has stopped raining and the sun is shining!**_

CHAPTER 7

I

The first task was to transfer Athos from the Cathedral to the garrison with the minimum amount of fuss, for that was the most obvious place to take him. They could hardly leave him lying on the hard, cold floor for too long and they did not want to attract prying eyes for, putting it bluntly, his current dishevelled state made him an incongruous companion for the smartly uniformed officers and the dapper First Minister.

It took some tact and diplomacy from Aramis to dissuade d'Artagnan from putting their friend in the second smaller bedroom in the quarters that were shared with Constance, the same room that had been lovingly prepared as a nursery.

"But the baby is not due just yet," d'Artagnan objected, eager to give whatever help and succour he could to the man who had been his mentor for many years.

"Don't be so sure," Porthos added, totally unhelpfully. "From what I know, babies'll do what they want, when they want. Besides, Constance takes one look at him," and here he nodded towards Athos, whose head still rested on his arm, "an' a whiff and it'll be enough to bring on labour."

"Thank you, Porthos," Aramis said cuttingly and turned to the open-mouthed d'Artagnan before he could register his concern. "You really do not want Athos in that room. Consider the state that he is in; he would be mortified when he awoke for he would see the love and effort that Constance has given to the nursery, getting it ready. It has been prepared for the arrival of your first-born, not the arrival of a mature man who, for whatever reason, appears to have seen better days!"

Aramis sighed, his flippancy at an end as he grew more serious. "We do not know what is wrong with him. If he has some illness, he should be nowhere near that room, for we cannot be certain what the outcome would be. Until we know otherwise, it could be a mistake even allowing Constance to come close."

"There is somethin' in that," Porthos agreed, silently urging the young captain to comply.

"We will take him to the garrison though; we have plenty of empty rooms still," d'Artagnan insisted.

"I have no problem with that," Aramis said. "It would raise some difficult questions were I to be seen trying to manoeuvre him into my rooms at the Palace."

"Elodie an' I could 'ave 'im," Porthos offered. "We might not 'ave much room but I'd make some for Athos."

"Of course you would," Aramis assured him. "None of us doubts that, but it could put a strain on Elodie and your daughter that is unnecessary. We would not want to expose them to whatever he might have."

"You're right. I never thought of that," added Porthos, as he looked down at the deadweight he held and hoped that the man did not have anything contagious for Athos had not moved at all.

"More importantly, we have no way of knowing what has transpired until he regains consciousness. Given his appearance and behaviour, we must all be in the same mind that it cannot be good," Aramis continued. His brothers nodded their agreement. "His sleep may be marred by terrible nightmares and he would not want to subject any woman or child to the consequences of the worst of those."

The four men, seasoned soldiers, had all had their share of broken nights to varying degrees, either as victim or witness, when sleep had been interrupted by the worst of memories surging to the surface in those unguarded moments. They all understood the abrupt awakening: bathed in sweat and shaking with a fear they had thought long suppressed; the pain of muscles rigid in tension or the betrayal of a trembling hand, the throat raw from screaming or the face wet with uncontrollable tears. Was Athos currently prey to any of these, or worse? A terrifying, battling struggle back to consciousness when a dear friend might be construed as a mortal enemy until the anger calmed and the horror subsided? No, until they knew for sure, it would be better for him to be in a separate room in the garrison.

"And," Aramis hesitated, for he was unsure how to continue, how to voice another anxiety, one that had been forefront in his mind from the moment he laid eyes on Athos, "waking up in a room so clearly designed to be a nursery might be the worst thing of all right now."

The other two looked at him and stared incredulously as his unspoken suggestion registered with each of them.

"You don't mean you think that …" d'Artagnan could not finish, he was so appalled.

"I don't know what to think right now," Aramis asserted with an edge to his voice that was borne of helplessness. "All I know is what I see. We have not heard from Athos for three months and then he turns up, not making outright contact but shadowing us like a cloaked ghost, and now look at him. In all the years I have known him, I have never seen him so dirty and uncared for, even when he was in his cups and we had to drag him out of a gutter and home to his bed. What has happened? He is here, apparently alone. Where are Sylvie and Raoul? That's what I want to know."

The sound of footsteps on stone heralded the arrival of a newcomer. Aramis and d'Artagnan immediately shifted position to shield Porthos and his precious burden from whoever it was.

"I thought I told you to stay by the entrance!" Aramis hissed angrily to Brujon, infuriated that the order had been disobeyed.

"I'm sorry, Minister. I know you said you had no idea how long you would be, but I was worried about what might have delayed you." He was distracted by the sight of Porthos and someone else behind them and he craned his neck to see around d'Artagnan, curiosity getting the better of him. His eyes widened with surprise. "Why, that's Captain A-" His unfinished word ended on a squeak as d'Artagnan grabbed his leather doublet by the collar and hauled him into the chapel.

"Sssssh!" he ordered. "We know who it is."

"But what's he doing ….?" His voice trailed away in bemusement.

Aramis slid an arm around his shoulder. "You know, Brujon, you are developing a most annoying habit in not finishing your sentences. It is a cause for concern in itself."

"Yes, Minister," Brujon flushed again, for he was more than aware of his shortcomings.

"No matter," Aramis went on cheerily. "We would, however, have you do something for us very quietly."

II

And so it was Brujon who returned to the garrison for a cart and brought it to a halt by a side door of the Cathedral, Brujon who had asked Constance to ready a room on the ground floor closest to the d'Artagnan quarters and Brujon who dismissed the remainder of the escort, explaining that the Captain and General Porthos were present and that he would join with them in escorting the Minister wherever he wanted to go. There was some caustic comment from someone about the rough cart not being up to the Minister's usual mode of transport these days and a round of guffaws from the others but he had ignored them, encouraging them to enjoy the premature cessation of their duties on the Captain's orders.

The unlikely group made their way slowly through the busy Paris streets back to the garrison. Aramis, as it happened, did not travel in the cart itself but on horseback immediately behind it and flanked by Pothos and d'Artagnan, his eyes never leaving the covered form in the bed of the cart driven by Brujon.

"Do you want me to send for a physician?" Porthos asked quietly as they neared the garrison's gates.

"Let me examine him first," Aramis insisted. "We will send for help only if I cannot manage. The fewer people who know he is here the better, especially if his account of being a wanted man is correct. If his whereabouts were known, he could be arrested and we would be heavily incriminated."

"You reckon that's what 'e meant about bringing us shame then?"

"It's the way his mind would work," d'Artagnan said.

"Did you hear him when he said he is alleged to have murdered two men?" Aramis asked. The other two nodded. "I wonder if that's the same two men who worked for Desmarais? When d'Artagnan and I met with the lovely Baron, he proclaimed that two of his men were murdered, cut down. Could that have been Athos?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Possibly. In which case, it's only Desmarais who is claiming murder. His men attacked the villagers who, I believe, were only defending themselves. I would love to be able to talk with them and find out a bit more."

"Which is why the Baron states so vociferously that he does not want Musketeer assistance," Aramis reminded them.

"Sounds like he's a man who 'as somethin' to hide," Porthos growled. "I'd love to do a bit of investigatin' on him."

"Wouldn't we all," Aramis asserted, "but we need to hear Athos' side of the story first. I just hope he will waken soon to share it."

Arriving at the garrison, d'Artagnan was relieved to see that the yard was virtually empty and the four or five musketeers who were at ease, sitting at a table in a position similar to the one where the _Inseparables_ had spent much time relaxing and eating, were swiftly dispatched to complete non-onerous tasks.

"What has taken you so long?" Constance appeared in a doorway wiping her hands on an apron. She watched worriedly as d'Artagnan, Aramis and Brujon placed themselves around the back end of the cart, eyes raking the stables and windows for any onlookers. As they studied the surroundings, Porthos threw back the cover that had been over Athos, grabbed his booted ankles and dragged him to the cart's edge, where he hauled him up and over his shoulder in one fluid move.

"Where to?" he demanded of Constance, who was gesturing through the open doorway.

"Straight on and back room on the right," she answered, standing to one side in order to let him pass, her nose wrinkling at the aroma that followed him and Athos.

By the time she entered the room that she had set aside, Porthos was lowering Athos into a sitting position on the bed and holding him steady as Aramis gave orders, simultaneously shaking off his richly decorated doublet and long robe that he wore over the top.

"Let's get him undressed. Constance, I need hot and cold water, cloths and …."

"All ready for you," she interrupted, indicating a table by the window that was laid out with all the things he had mentioned and more besides: a jug of water for drinking, a cup, bottles of herbs to make an infusion, bandages, a pair of scissors, a bottle of alcohol to pour over any open wound and the means to sew one closed should the need arise. The means to light a fire were laid in the grate. He smiled his appreciation for her calm preparedness, welcoming anything that might distract him from the worry of his unconscious brother.

"Thank you, Constance. Would you please leave us for a little while? We need to ascertain what ails him and I would not have you at any risk."

"Any risk," she tutted dismissively but, as Aramis frowned and made to object, she raised a hand in submission. "Very well, I will go but not before I have seen Athos properly for myself."

Before they could stop her, she had taken his lolling head in her hands and tipped it back slightly so that she could gaze on the familiar face and closed eyes.

"You poor man," she whispered. "What's happened to you?" and, brushing aside the lank hair, she planted a gentle kiss on his forehead before retreating to the door where she paused to survey the other occupants in the room. "Look after him, won't you?" Her voice suddenly hardened. "And don't even think of giving me his disgusting clothes to wash. Burn them. I'll find something of d'Artagnan's that he can wear."

III

"You 'aven't 'ad reason to do this in a while," Porthos noted as Aramis straightened from where he had been examining his unexpected patient.

"No, but I bet he hasn't forgotten anything," d'Artagnan added with a slight smile that belied his rising anxiety.

"I do not know what ails him. It could simply be that he is completely exhausted and his body has failed him. He is certainly malnourished, little more than skin and bone. He is hot, in the early stages of a fever perhaps, but there are no broken bones and no fresh wounds," Aramis stated, rinsing his hands in the bowl of hot water and drying them on a cloth that Constance had provided. "However, he has at least two new scars that I have never seen before."

At this, Porthos sat up straighter in the chair he had claimed the moment Aramis had begun his work. "What sort of scars?"

"One here from a blade," and he indicated the tell-tale mark in the otherwise smooth skin on Athos' left side. D'Artagnan moved to peer over his shoulder. "And the other one suggests that he has been shot below the right collarbone at some point."

"I don't remember them either," Porthos announced, brow furrowing as he struggled to remember clearly.

"Nor I," d'Artagnan added. "Are they from the same time?"

"Hard to say," Aramis replied.

"Could they have been from the unrest with Desmarais' men then? Is that why we have not heard from him?"

Aramis was shaking his head. "They're older than that, most definitely."

"Seems to me there's not much call for a gentleman farmer to go getting' himself stabbed and shot," Porthos carefully remarked.

"What has he been doing?" d'Artagnan asked of the other two, knowing full well that they did not have the answers any more than he did.

"An' 'ow come he's carryin' this much around with him?" Porthos went on, leaning to pick up a small brown leather pouch and tipping its contents into the palm of his hand.

D'Artagnan let out a low whistle. "That's an awful lot of money. The proprietor of the Wren said he had coin enough to pay for his drinks but I never thought that he had that much. With that amount of money, was he not staying in a tavern somewhere? Could he not have kept himself clean? Eaten regularly rather than looking half-starved?"

"It is pointless speculating," Aramis said, but his expression said that he was as perplexed as they were. "Athos might still have access to money from his estate at Pinon. This could be the remainder of his entre savings …"

"What's he left Sylvie with then?" Porthos interrupted.

"I don't know. Proceeds from the last harvest?" Aramis offered.

Porthos gave a derisory laugh. "I'd like to meet the landowner who has a harvest big enough to make this kind of profit and more. I don't think Athos 'as that much land. E'd be able to pay the increased taxes for all of Louviers with this 'ere."

"That is something of an exaggeration, my friend, but I do see your point," Aramis chided him.

"Could he have sold the land at Louviers?" d'Artagnan wondered, for the amount had to have been generated somehow.

"Why?" Aramis queried. "Why, when his letters indicated that all was well?"

There was an awkward pause. "Perhaps things were not going so well as he would have us believe," d'Artagnan suggested quietly.

"You mean that 'e an' Sylvie have gone their separate ways?" Porthos scowled.

"I don't want to believe it any more than you do but it is not beyond the realms of possibility that they have separated, sold the land, split the amount and he has come back to us, ashamed in his mind that yet another relationship has failed," d'Artagnan continued.

"No, too easy," the General went on. "That doesn't explain why he's wanted for killin' a couple of men, unless you're sayin' that 'e left Sylvie and killed two men in anger."

"Absolutely not!" d'Artagnan was shocked.

"Where else could he have got money like that?" Aramis wondered, drawing them back to the initial question.

"There's only one other way that I can see," Porthos said, his very tone indicating that he did not favour his remaining explanation.

"And that is?" d'Artagnan pressed.

"Payment of some kind. Hiring out his blade an' his skill perhaps?"

The Musketeer Captain and First Minister looked at him aghast.

Aramis reached out a hand and cupped the begrimed, warm cheek of his friend. "Oh Athos, what have you got yourself embroiled in this time?"


	8. Chapter 8

**_Dear readers, I am speechless at your many responses so far and I expect the same will happen after this chapter. School finished today and I am sitting in my classroom relishing the silence and writing. I am uploading this and then doing 'a runner' to the cinema. I wait with bated breath for your reactions to this. Done in a hurry so I apologise for any awful proofreading._**

CHAPTER 8

D'Artagnan was unavoidably summoned to address garrison business and, promising to return as soon as he was able, he left Aramis and Porthos to tend their unconscious brother. For a while they worked in silence, using the warm water and cloths to cleanse Athos, making him more comfortable, as well as presentable. Via one of the Musketeers, Aramis had sent word to the Palace that he would not be returning that day, having already announced to his friends his intention of remaining with Athos throughout the rest of the day.

"Where was the money?" he asked quietly, his attention focused on wiping down Athos' right arm.

"In an inside pocket of his doublet; I could feel it when he was slung over my shoulder," Porthos answered, also in a mute voice as he dried Athos' other arm.

"Did you search his pockets for any papers?"

"Yes, but there was nothin'."

"Not even in a lining?"

Porthos frowned. "Nothin'. I checked thoroughly."

They worked on, saying nothing more until they had completed their task. Athos was settled back against the pillows, arms resting lightly on the sheet drawn up to his chest. The warmth in the room made a blanket unnecessary.

They sank onto chairs and Porthos poured them each a goblet of wine.

"Do you think he has really sold himself?" Aramis asked, accepting the drink as he eyed Porthos worriedly.

"No," the big man was adamant. "That was gut reaction. Think on it realistically. What good is he to anyone right now? He couldn't fight; he has no strength or muscle. There's nothing of him," and Porthos watched as Aramis ran his fingers very lightly over the visible ribs. Athos had apparently not eaten properly for weeks.

"Don't understand it," Porthos continued, "when 'e has that amount of money in his pocket. Constance'll fatten 'im up again though. She'll feed 'im well, she'll see it as her duty." He moved his chair forward and pressed the back of his hand against Athos' brow and frowned as he felt the warmth emanating from the man. "Everythin' 'e 'as been doin' of late 'as been out of character. I say again that I just don't understand it an' I know I don't like it."

"For whatever reason, he's chosen not to eat or he's been too distracted. This self-neglect is nothing new. We know him of old; self-guilt is driving him and I can only assume that something dire has happened."

"Even with all that business about Milady an' Pinon an' 'im tryin' to drink 'imself into an early grave, I don't recall 'im actually lookin' as bad as this. D'you think it's Sylvie and Raoul?"

Aramis looked long and hard at Athos and then turned troubled, dark eyes on the big man sitting next to him before he whispered, "I fear the worst and I suspect that you do too."

Taking a deep, shuddering breath as his eyes filled with tears at the thought, Porthos could only nod at first. He could not bring himself to speak for several moments and then he managed a watery smile. "But 'e's come back to us; 'e's been drawn here. We can 'elp 'im. He'll get well again; we've done it before."

"But does he want to this time?" Aramis could not hide the agony he felt. Every man has his ultimate breaking point, maybe Athos has finally reached it this time. He was close enough with Treville's death, the destruction of the garrison and the fight with Grimaud. If anything has happened to Sylvie and his son ….." He could not finish the sentence.

They settled to caring for their beleaguered brother who, as the hours passed, became more agitated as a fever developed. With no injuries and no apparent illness, there seemed to be no clear reason for it except that his body was crying out that it had had enough of the punishment he had delivered to it. With lack of food, there had to have been lack of sleep to leave him sleeping so deeply, despite their ministrations.

As Aramis sought to soothe him, he resolved that he would interview Desmarais again the following day to ask more specific questions appertaining to the people's uprising over the imposed increase in taxes.

II

At the Palace, there were numerous rooms in which courtiers gathered at any time of the day or evening. They might not be in the presence of royalty but they were determined to see and be seen by the beautiful and the powerful, afraid to miss anything important, and whilst Desmarais had not spared any expense and had taken a costly suite of rooms in a large, imposing house overlooking the banks of the Seine, he was spending as much time as possible at the Palace itself. Although regarded by many as minor aristocracy, he did not let this deter him from socialising with as wide a circle of people as possible and attempting to inveigle others with his company.

Later in the same day that the _Inseparables_ had unexpectedly been reunited, he had a visit from one of his most trusted men who had been overseeing things on the estate in his absence. Unhappy, for the visit did not bode well, Desmarais led Henri Benoit out into the palace gardens to search for a secluded spot where they might speak unnoticed and without interruption. Finding an ornamental stone seat in the shade of some evergreens, he sat down and eventually signalled Benoit to sit beside him so that they could keep their voices low, confederate.

"What news?" Desmarais demanded, intent upon keeping the audience brief for he had worked hard to secure a dinner invitation with a particular aristocratic family.

Benoit thought to deliver the bad news first. "The three prisoners that we are holding are still not talking but," he hurried on as soon as he saw Desmarais' grimace of displeasure, "we have managed to catch one of the remaining two men that evaded us – one Hubert Malan."

The Baron's demeanour immediately softened to one of satisfaction until he recalled the conversation he had had with the First Minister and the Captain of the Musketeers.

"They are all to be brought to Paris under musketeer guard –orders of first Minister," he explained.

"What?" Benoit could not believe what he was hearing. "Why?"

"I told him we had been having a spot of bother with the villagers."

"And why did you do that?" Benoit was not averse to plain speaking when alone with the Baron, who did not object in most instances, for the man had been in his employment for many years, earning his trust to the point that he was privy to a great deal of Desmarais' machinations.

"I could see that I was not in a position to remain silent. Other nobles in the area know of our little problems. They are here at court as well and asking too many questions of me that I feel indisposed to answer. I had to say something to reassure the First Minister that we had the situation in hand. Besides which, I could not risk him finding out from my neighbours because that would probably have led to many more unwanted questions and not a little trouble from the Crown."

"I could arrange for the prisoners to meet with some 'little accident' before the Musketeers arrive," Benoit offered.

The Baron eyed him scathingly. "All four of them? Does that not occur to you that it would appear ridiculously suspicious? Let the musketeers have them and bring them to Paris. They will be off the estate, no longer a burden to me and it might teach the rest of the ingrates that we really do mean business."

"But they could bleat to the Minister about the taxes," Benoit objected.

Desmarais merely shrugged. "They will stand no chance of a sympathetic hearing. The Crown raised the taxes to increase the revenue to fund the war and they're refusing to do their duty and pay."

"But you raised them too high. If the Crown notices the discrepancy between what you are trying to collect and what is purportedly going into the royal coffers, they'll want to know why."

This time, Desmarais smiled apologetically, held out his hands in mock defence and practiced his response. "So I shall say that I have had a lot of unexpected expenditure maintaining lands and the chateau: I will hold up my hands and say I was a little greedy. They need not know where the money has really been going." The act was abruptly dropped and he was serious again. "I will need to make sure that I am back at the estate before the Musketeers arrive to ensure that there is no incriminating evidence."

Benoit was amazed. "Should there be? Do you just leave it lying around?"

"Of course I don't! What do you take me for? It is generally secreted elsewhere."

"And you're not telling me where?"

"Certainly not. It is better for us both if you do not know; look upon it as an additional security measure."

"You don't trust me," Benoit said accusingly.

"Stop it! Being surly does not suit you. I don't trust anyone," Desmarais stressed, "but you have more of my confidences than anyone else." He paused as something else occurred to him. "Does this fourth man – this Malan - know anything regarding the deaths of Gilles Godin and Aubin Lahaye?"

Benoit shook his head. "No and he seems to be telling the truth. We knew he was one of the ringleaders who led the villagers in their fight but by the time it was all over and there were so many casualties, he had already disappeared. He kept his head down and was in hiding the whole time in a neighbouring village; he hadn't gone too far."

"So he was still in the vicinity and could have killed them," Desmarais persisted but Benoit shook his head again.

"Godin and Lahaye were killed separately over a month later. Apart from the fact Malan genuinely did not seem to know what had happened to them, other information has come to light. Godin had an underling with him the day he died and this man has only just come forward; he was so shaken by what he witnessed. They were out checking a distant part of the estate and Godin sent him to refill their water bags. When the man returned, Godin was embroiled in a heated argument with a stranger. Correction: the stranger was angry but Godin looked as if he were taunting him. They started to fight using swords and it was soon clear that Godin was horrendously outclassed. The stranger was a demon with the sword. Godin's man stayed hiding in the trees and saw him ruthlessly cut down."

"Was he able to give any description of this stranger?"

"Only that he was plainly dressed and somewhat untidy in his clothing. He was tall, slender and had long, waving hair and the blade he carried had an ornate basket hilt."

"French or foreign?"

"The argument was in French but that means nothing and the description of the stranger does not sound foreign," Benoit reasoned.

"Could he be an assassin?" Desmarais looked and sounded worried.

"Unlikely. If he were an assassin, he would have moved swiftly, unobtrusively. He would want to strike without the risk of getting into an altercation with the target."

"Did Godin's man hear any of the argument?" the Baron wondered.

"Not clearly, only that the stranger swore that his business was unfinished and that he would get the one behind it all. The little that was heard suggested that he was well-spoken."

Desmarais paled at the news. "Does it sound like anyone we know? Does it fit any description?"

"I haven't a clue. Anyway, why target Godin and Lahaye?"

"They work for me." Desmarais' voice sounded clipped, cold.

Benoit's eyes widened. "Can someone have found out what you are about?"

"No," the response was immediate, dogmatic. "How? I have been very careful."

"Apparently not if Godin and Aubin Lahaye have both been killed." It was Benoit's turn to sound caustic.

"Do you think their deaths are linked?"

"It's highly likely. They were mysterious, a few days apart and they are the only other ones who know what you are up to. I would lay money on it being this unidentified man."

The Baron sighed. "That puts you and me at risk now too; you are privy to more than they ever were."

The men fell silent as they considered what had happened. Benoit spoke first

"Is there anyone at your meetings it could be?"

"No; besides which, you were with me each time."

"I didn't sit in on the meetings themselves though," Benoit pressed.

"No, but you saw who was there and I do not recall anyone answering this man's descriptions."

Benoit exhaled noisily; it was an odd combination of a sigh and an angry growl. "We were not exactly looking for him at that point but who can he be working for?"

"Someone has got wind of what we're about and either wants to be involved or it is someone who wants to bring me down," Desmarais said bitterly.

"You have not exactly tried to be on good terms with your neighbours so it could be anyone – it makes a long list!" Benoit reminded him.

Desmarais was furious. "If you cannot say anything helpful, stay quiet."

"What are we to we do then?"

"Send word back to the estate and get them out looking; he must be somewhere. Find him!" the Baron ordered.

Benoit was nothing but pessimistic. "That's easier said than done. Nearly three weeks have passed since Godin was murdered and Lahaye five days before him. The person could be anywhere. If he knows of your involvement, he could even have followed you to Paris."

"I am safe where I am," Desmarais declared. "There are plenty of guards at the palace and I have my own men at the rooms I have taken nearby. I am alerted to the danger and all will concentrate upon my safety. Now you will stay with me too; you're my best fighter."

Benoit was not so sure. He had not liked what he heard about the prowess and swordsmanship of the stranger. "You would be better at the estate," he encouraged.

"He could easily be waiting for me there. Anyway, I am hoping to remain in Paris a little longer to get more news on the progress of the war with Spain. The First Minister and the musketeer Captain seem so keen to help me, perhaps they are good conversationalists too. In addition, I have learned that a General Porthos has returned injured from the northern front line; no doubt he has been using time to reflect on things whilst here."

"And you think he is going to come straight out and tell you what his plans are?" Benoit was incredulous

Desmarais smirked. "They are all new friendships that may well be worth cultivating! As a concerned loyal Frenchman, I am keen to keep abreast of anything, especially given the fact that my estate lies to the north. The Spaniards have already tried an approach to Paris once: it was only lack of funds that stopped them. They might be in a position to try again soon."

Benoit grinned in response. "I thought you were already in a positon to know enough!"

III

For three days, Athos' fever raged and his brothers took it in turns to sit with him, although the greater portion of time fell to Aramis, mainly at his own insistence. When he was not bathing Athos, trying to cool him and dripping water between parched lips, he had work brought to him from the Palace. He sat in the daylight and the long candlelit hours reading and signing papers; the business of state would not go away. The Queen had not received the news well of his absence from the Palace for he had initially tried to keep news of Athos' presence from her but, in the end, he succumbed to her displeasure and confessed the reason for his decision to spend so much time at the garrison. Now, like him, she was genuinely concerned when she heard details of how Athos had appeared to his friends and was equally anxious for news of Sylvie and Raoul.

Athos alternated between states of deathly stillness, utter exhaustion and frantic delirium. He oblivious to his surroundings and was very agitated at times: talking, mumbling, crying out and very distressed. It took great effort on the part of his brothers to sooth him and, in quiet moments, they tried to piece together the few intelligible words that he uttered. They could make little sense of any of it but one undisputed fact remained; when he cried out for Sylvie and his son, his tone was imbued with such anguish that they had never heard before and never wanted to again. Constance was too vulnerable, too upset by his disposition that they would not allow her in the room for any length of time, other than to bring them food and drink so that she might see Athos and be reassured that he still breathed.

On the third day, Aramis was sitting with him when he began to stir. He blinked hard, trying to bring the room into focus, and frowned.

"Where am I?" the voice was low and scratchy with lack of use.

"You're in the garrison. It's part of the new building erected after you had left; that is why you don't recognise it."

Athos shut his eyes. "What happened?"

"You have had a fever." Aramis spoke softly, imparting only the information that Athos sought, his own head bursting with questions and wondering when it would be appropriate to ask them.

"How long?" Continued exhaustion meant that Athos ground out his inquiries in as few words as possible.

"Three days."

That piece of information was a shock and his eyes shot open as he immediately struggled to sit up and fight against Aramis who held him by the shoulders. "I have to go. I cannot stay here; too much time has been lost."

Aramis pushed him back down onto the pillows, a frighteningly easy thing to do for Athos had no strength to resist him. "You are not going anywhere just yet, my friend. You are far too weak." He hesitated, wondering if the opportunity he sought had come, "and you have some explaining to do."

Athos lay there staring up at him, saw the resolve in the dark eyes that Aramis was not going to waver in his demands. "Please." It came out on a breathy whisper. "Don't."

Aramis had only heard Athos come close to begging once before, when he had knelt before the Cardinal Richelieu and asked for Ninon de Larroque to be spared the pyre but this, this went beyond that occasion. This was couched in utter agony and it shook Aramis to the core and he knew that his persistence was guaranteed to cause untold pain, as if he were twisting the knife in an already raw wound.

He choked back his own, guilt-ridden sorrow at what he was doing. "Talk to me, Athos, please. We hear nothing from you for three months and then you come to us, are seen by us over several days and fall so ill. Can you not understand that we hurt and worry for you? We need to know what has befallen you, what has brought you to this point and our minds are conjuring all sorts of scenarios. We are here for you and want to help like always, but you must speak to us. Do not shut us out." His voice broke with the intensity of the moment and he knew he had to ask, afraid of the answer.

"Where are Sylvie and Raoul?"

Athos closed his eyes, unable to bring himself to look at the man who had been – and still was – so close to him.

"Gone," he said, his voice so soft that Aramis had to strain to hear it.

"Gone? What do you mean 'gone'?" For a brief moment he thought the relationship had broken down irretrievably and they had 'gone' their different ways, but the hope was short-lived.

Athos opened his eyes once more and took a deep, shuddering breath. In that instant, as Aramis stared into the abyss of despair and grief and realised just how broken his brother was, he knew the answer, even as Athos whispered the two words that were wrung from him.

"They're dead!"


	9. Chapter 9

_**Dear all, what a storm was unleashed with the previous chapter! I wonder if it will be the last? (That is the closest I am coming to a spoiler alert!) Thank you so much for all your responses, guests and regular reviewers alike. I know that it upset some of you and I am sorry, but it is how the story has unfolded and there is much to discover yet so I really hope that you 'stick with it'. In this chapter, Athos begins to share a little more information (I 'blame' him for the delay as he was being too reticent!)**_

CHAPTER 9

The words were said.

There was no further denial of their import, no taking them back and Athos lay there, numb with the stark realisation that they were the first time he had uttered them aloud. As they hung in the air, they carried with them a sickening reality, a finality that he had hitherto refused to acknowledge, even as he stood beside the single grave, for Raoul had been laid to rest in his mother's arms.

"The little one should not be left alone in the dark," the women of the village had said to him as he stood there, trying to relate the mound of earth with its crude wooden cross to his fast-fading image of the vibrant, laughing woman he had loved and the child who had so quickly and amazingly become his world.

"Don't be so stupid!" his rational side had wanted to scream. "That is not Raoul. That shell does not care if it is light or dark!"

But he could not bring himself to say it as the women stood there softly weeping. He was grateful to them for having taken care of Sylvie and Raoul but he felt sick, sick with the guilt that he had not been able to do it himself. When he could in the past, he had helped care for the fallen or had at least been present when others undertook the task, and he had been there when Tréville was prepared for his final journey, had kept his own traumatised vigil, sinking into his silent, dry-eyed existence.

He had not been involved in the preparation of Sylvie and his son, had been unable to shed a tear from the moment that he knew and in the same way, he could not cry now, even as he felt Aramis gather him up into his arms and hold him. Unmoving, his head on Aramis' shoulder, he could feel his brother shaking with suppressed grief but there was no release, no relief in joining him. There was nothing.

It was Porthos who slipped into the room unnoticed and found his two brothers in their quiet embrace or, rather, Aramis holding Athos as if he were afraid to let go, that his ill brother would disappear if his grip on him were to relax. Athos, however, had rested one hand on Aramis' back and sat very still, chin resting on the other man's shoulder and eyes staring unseeing into the distance. Both were oblivious to the new arrival and Porthos was debating whether to cough gently to alert them to his presence when they naturally broke apart.

"I am so sorry. How …?" Aramis began slowly but Athos raised a hand and pressed cold, clammy fingers to his lips.

"Don't!" he said softly. "I cannot …," he faltered. "Not right now."

Aramis nodded. "I understand," and he swiped hastily at the dampness on his face as Athos noticed Porthos standing just inside the room.

"Hello," he said flatly.

"Good to see you awake and back with us," Porthos responded as cheerily as he could, even as he watched Aramis surreptitiously. The First Minister got to his feet and moved to walk past him and out of the room. He paused long enough to lay a hand on Porthos' shoulder and their eyes met. His grief-filled expression and affirmative dip of the head were all that were needed to confirm to Porthos that their worst fears had been realised.

"I will get you some food," Aramis said hoarsely to Athos without even turning his head.

As the door closed behind him, Athos sank back against the pillows and waited as Porthos lowered himself into the chair beside him and reached for the cup of water to hand to him.

Athos took several mouthfuls, all the while studying Porthos carefully over the rim of the cup.

It was the General who broke the silence between them.

"You gave us quite the run around," he commented, still smiling in reassurance. He did not want the other man to think that he was scolding him – even if he was gently doing just that.

"You tricked me," Athos accused him, green eyes narrowing into an oddly familiar glare.

"We went over this back in the Cathedral but you probably forgot, bein' ill. You were showin' up all over the place and we wanted to speak with you."

"And if I did not wish to speak to you?" There was the old belligerence re-emerging, the resurrection of the defensive wall.

Porthos grinned more widely. "Now I don't believe any of that, otherwise you would not 'ave let us see you. You 'aven't been gone so long that you've forgotten how to stalk someone or creep up on 'em."

Athos averted his eyes even as the door opened to re-admit Aramis, suitably composed now and bearing a tray. He handed over a bowl of beef broth.

"Eat!" he ordered simply and stood over him, arms folded, his stance and expression making it clear that he would brook no nonsense. Resigned, Athos spooned up the broth and reluctantly, slowly, began to eat.

Satisfied for the moment, Aramis pulled up another chair and sat next to the cot, deliberately keeping his tone light and conversational. "You have been negligent and need to eat to build up your strength again. I know you will not thank us and will object, but we have been discussing things and want you to stay here for the time being whilst you fully recover, for we believe that we can keep you safe within the garrison."

Athos set the spoon down and sighed. "If it is known that I am here, there is little that you could do to prevent me from being taken."

"The two men that you killed?" Aramis left the rest of the question unspoken.

"They were the ones responsible," Athos replied, his voice expressionless but they did not require him to elucidate any further. He was obviously referring to the men who had been instrumental in the deaths of Sylvie and Raoul.

"Was this during the uprising in the village?" Aramis asked softly, leaning forward in his seat, willing Athos to say more.

Instead, Athos looked at him quizzically. "How did you know about the troubles?"

"Desmarais told me," Aramis announced abruptly, as things began to fall into place for him.

Now Athos was visibly surprised. "And how do you know him?"

"He and I met at a function at the Palace a few days ago and I took an instant dislike to the man," Aramis announced.

Athos huffed wryly. "He has that effect upon many people."

Aramis smiled. "He was complaining bitterly that the villagers were refusing to pay the increase in the taxes imposed by the crown and that when his men tried to collect those taxes, they came under attack."

Athos stiffened in anger and handed Porthos the bowl. "That is his story."

"You haven't eaten much," the big man remonstrated, looking at the remaining contents of the bowl.

"I cannot stomach it," came the cold response.

"No matter," Porthos said, endeavouring to lighten the mood which had suddenly grown very tense. "It'll need to be a little and often to begin with," and he set the bowl aside.

"I assumed at the time that there was more to this than Desmarais was sharing with me and I fully intended to speak with him again but then your fever took hold and it was more important to be with you. Now I would hear your side before I go back to him," Aramis explained as he attempted to refocus the conversation, fully aware that Athos would engage in any avoidance tactic. He waited patiently for a couple of minutes. "It is important that we understand and we can only do that if you tell us what has been going on."

Athos took a deep breath and visibly struggled to make eye contact with the two men beside him.

"Desmarais raised the taxes a few months ago, saying that the instruction had come from Paris that the increase was necessary to fund the war with Spain," Athos began.

"That was the message that was sent throughout France," Aramis confirmed, having been a part of the country's council that had made such a decision.

"It was as we expected," Athos said, knowing from personal experience the heavy cost of battle in both human and monetary terms. "It was a difficult time though and people in the village were struggling to meet the increase as the last harvest had not been good for some; the winter was long and cold and there was little spare to take to market. There were good neighbours in the area and, wherever possible, we pooled any food we could - vegetables and the like.

"A few of the men and I hunted, taking care not to kill on Desmarais' land. My smallholding lies to the west of the Baron's estate, whilst to the other side of my land, there is a forest that was not owned by anyone and we usually ventured there. We would make our kill and were sometimes lucky enough to take down more than one beast on an outing – deer or boar. We would take it back to the village and divide it amongst the families. Somehow, though, Desmarais always knew when we had met with success and his men paid us a visit. Eventually, he started levelling the accusation that we were taking meat from his table; we could not prove that the meat was not his and he could not prove that it was. That was the impasse for a while.

"Then it was announced that he claimed the land as rightfully in his possession, that he had purchased it from the Crown. When we queried further, some documents were waved in our direction by someone called Benoit who considers himself to be Desmarais' right hand man but we were never allowed to scrutinise them closely. The explanation given to us was that it was another means by which the contents of the royal coffers could be swelled to fund the war but I suspected that it was all lies, that the documentation was not genuine, especially as no-one in our village or those further afield knew of the forest belonging to the Crown."

"I can assure you that there have been no recent land purchases of any description anywhere in the country and certainly not of Crown lands. Besides, there definitely would have been nothing of that nature in the north where there has been so much Spanish activity," Aramis announced and Porthos nodded in agreement.

"The north has seen too much fightin' an' raids by the Spanish. Where farmland was not raided an' laid waste by the enemy, harvests failed and there is much deprivation in those northern parts," Porthos added.

"There were those in the Louviers area beginning to find it just as hard. Desmarais deigned to give us permission to hunt in _his_ forest after that, on the understanding that we paid him a tax that varied according to the size of the kill. Some of the men were driven to hunting at night for anything, and risked being caught. Two of them were and were publicly flogged as a warning to the rest of us. Frequently, Desmarais' men would arrive in the village and search all the properties, seizing any meat and punishing those found in possession of it; it did not matter if the meat was honestly hunted or the result of the slaughter of precious livestock."

Aramis and Porthos sat, visibly shocked at what they were hearing.

"He was squeezing the people for every available coin but it was not enough. Just over four months ago, he raised the taxes again on instructions from Paris." Athos' steady gaze fell upon Aramis. "The people began to hate any mention of France, its young King, his mother, you and the council."

"I swear we did not increase the taxes again," Aramis breathed.

"I know that. I had reason to journey from the area and spoke to those living a day away; it was obvious that they were not subjected to the same level of crippling taxation that was imposed upon us. I returned to our neighbours and informed them and a group was formed to approach the Baron."

"Which you led?" Porthos guessed but Athos shook his head.

"On this occasion, I let others take the lead and they had my support, but he would not listen. When people could not pay, his men came around seizing anything of any value, beginning with the remaining livestock."

"Increasin' the 'ardship of the folk," Porthos rightly surmised.

"They were desperately struggling to meet the first increase although they understood the need for it, even if they did not like it, but the majority could not meet the second rise. I tried as best I could to add a little more to the collection but I did not have the means to cover the shortfall of all and Sylvie …"

Here he faltered at the mention of her name and Aramis could not help but wonder how often he had spoken aloud of her since her demise. He reached out and laid a comforting hand on his friend's arm.

"And what did Sylvie do?"

"She gave away whatever foodstuffs we could spare and baked loaves of bread for the sick. She was already teaching reading and writing to those who wanted to learn," Athos said, his voice little more than a croak. Porthos poured him another cup of water which he took gratefully and drank down in one, stalling for time in his tale.

"Was she behind the petition to Desmarais?" Aramis continued, hardly daring to breathe as he wondered how much more information he would manage to glean from Athos whilst he was in this amenable mood.

Athos nodded. "When the approaches of the men failed, she motivated the women. They asked her to write to the Baron on their behalf, so she did and they suggested that they signed their names if they could do so by that stage, otherwise they made their mark. I told her to be careful but she thought that it was just another way to appeal to him, to explain that they were not deliberately trying to go against him but that they were having genuine difficulty in meeting his demands."

"There is part truth in what he told me at least," Aramis confirmed. "I gather that he did not respond well to the petition. He seemed to object to the little learning the people had gained. Is this what initiated the … trouble?" He was not sure that he wanted to use the word 'uprising' again and adopted the term Athos had used earlier.

"He was determined not to show any leniency and insisted that all monies were to be paid immediately, sending out a large number of his men to collect. The people had nothing left to give but Desmarais' men wouldn't believe them. In anger, they set fire to the meeting hall and began to use intimidation and force. The villagers retaliated; they were only defending themselves but it was enough for events to spiral out of control," Athos explained, distractedly picking at a pulled thread in the sheet rather than meeting the sympathetic contemplation of his friends.

There was a lengthy pause as each man pondered the events and what was likely to have happened next.

"I know you are not ready to give us details," Aramis began cautiously, "but is that when …. when something happened to Sylvie and Raoul?"

Athos merely nodded. It was as if they could see him shutting down before them, the conversation becoming too personal, too painful for him to continue, but it was Porthos who pressed home the final point when he realised that, for whatever reason, Athos had been unable to protect Sylvie and their child

"You're talkin' about what the villagers were doin' in this fight. What happened to you?"

At last, Athos raised his head and looked directly at them, his expression one of frighteningly undisguised agony.

"I was not there."


	10. Chapter 10

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **I want to thank so many of you for your ongoing support with this story which, I know, has not been easy for some. I may have lost some readers along the way but that is their choice and I fully respect them for that and appreciate those who have contacted me. The story moves on - as will Athos in time - and many questions remain. Just what is Desmarais up to?**_

 _ **I really appreciate your support and speculation and love hearing from you all so I look forward to the next round of comments, even if you are cross with me!**_

CHAPTER 10

I

"Did he say where he had been?" d'Artagnan asked over an hour later.

Four of them were gathered around the table, the makings of a light meal laid out before them, but none of them was eating as Aramis and Porthos shared with the musketeer Captain and his wife what Athos had told them. D'Artagnan slipped his arm around Constance and held her close as she wept silently at the news of the death of her friend and the little boy who had brought such joy.

"No," Porthos went on. "I was surprised 'e said as much as 'e did considerin' how ill he's been. It tired 'im out though an' he soon fell asleep."

"He'll probably sleep for the next few hours," Aramis said. "I hope it helped him to tell us as much as he did but there is more to his tale, of that I have no doubt."

"Where do you think he was?" d'Artagnan persisted.

Porthos merely shrugged as Aramis answered for them both. "We have no idea."

D'Artagnan looked directly at Porthos. "Do you still favour the notion that he had sold his skills?"

Porthos thought carefully before giving his opinion. He stared unseeing at the stem of the wine goblet he was holding and turned it between his fingers. "Like I told Aramis, I don't think so; it was a spur of the moment thought and, lookin' back on it, I reckon it does Athos a disservice, unless 'e found someone in serious need of 'elp an' it would've had to 'ave been very bad if it took 'im away from the village when the people were 'aving such a struggle. No," he shook his head as he reached a decision, "I'm certain that's not it." He could not resist the temptation to glance at the rapier in the corner of the room; it had been there since they brought their unconscious brother back to the garrison. "Since when has he carried such a weapon though?"

"It's a good piece, beautifully balanced," d'Artagnan said and, when he realised the others were staring at him, he shrugged. "It was hard not to notice it with that ornate hilt. I certainly haven't seen it before and do not think it's the type of weapon Athos would go out and purchase if he was employed to fight, not when he had to other serviceable blades already. He had the one he always used and the family heirloom that he had kept."

"'E never used the family one an' p'raps the other one was broken; it'd seen plenty of action after all," Porthos reasoned as he thought further about the matter.

"Or perhaps this one was given to him," d'Artagnan suggested.

"Just another mystery to add to the long list he has created," Aramis added ruefully.

"Do you think it was the same thing that took him away at least twice?" Constance suddenly asked as she pulled away from d'Artagnan, straightened in her chair and dried her eyes. Not interested in the talk on weapons, she was still thinking about the previous subject of their discussion. The three men turned to her, their expressions questioning. "Well," she continued, "he was away when Sylvie and Raoul were killed and you said that he told you he'd been away beforehand to find out that the people were being overtaxed."

"You're right," d'Artagnan said. "What was he doing that took him away from home? Is it related to the weapon? It could not have been something as simple as going to market; he would just have gone into Louviers itself."

"It's certainly something we need to ask him next time he wakes up," Aramis said. "In the meantime, I suggest we eat and then I intend going back to the Palace to send for Desmarais. It's high time he and I had a further conversation."

"You need to be careful how much you say," Porthos insisted. "You don't want to give him any idea that you've had another source of information."

Aramis shot him a look of feigned hurt. "What do you take me for, brother? Of course I will not let him know."

"Do you want me with you again?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis grinned. "No, I will see him alone this time. I think you made him nervous! We need someone to stay with Athos."

"I will take my turn and sit with him now," Constance offered without hesitation. "Whilst he sleeps, I have plenty of sewing that I can do."

"If you're sure?" her husband asked worriedly.

She smiled. "Certainly. He is recovering and needs rest. It does not take much exertion on my part to give him water and a little food should he awake." She looked around at the three men. "And I promise not to press him for any more information or run the risk of upsetting him, but at least I shall be with him should he wish to voluntarily divulge anything else. You all have work to do."

II

Aramis was in his office, standing as he poured over a large-scale map of north west France that was spread out on his desk.

"Enter," he called as a knock sounded at the door but he deliberately did not look up as Desmarais was admitted by his secretary. When he heard the door close again, he knew that his man had departed but he made no attempt to acknowledge the Baron, who was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room for what seemed like ages.

At length, he looked up, his handsome features breaking into a broad grin of welcome as he affected surprise at seeing the Baron. Swiftly coming around his desk, he extended a hand and gripped that of the other man.

"My dear Baron, thank you so much for responding quickly to my invitation," he said, pumping Desmarais' hand enthusiastically.

The Baron did not dare correct him by pointing out that there had been little of the 'invitation' and more of a summons about the message he had received. Benoit had accompanied him but Secretary Edouard insisted that he remain in an outer room whilst the Baron met with the First Minister. They had exchanged a wary glance but there had been no chance for Benoit to be admitted with him.

"Minister," the Baron said, wondering what lay behind the meeting. He was soon to find out as Aramis returned to his original position and summoned Desmarais to join him.

"I am intrigued, Baron, as to where your estate is. I have been trying to locate it but …" he gestured helplessly towards the map.

"Here," Desmarais said and pointed it out with ease.

"I see. A wonderful area …. And what is the extent of your land? It is bounded by the river to the east but how far west does it reach?" The map indicated that Desmarais had forests on his estate but wanted to see if Desmarais dared to claim the extensive forest to the west of Athos' smallholding. It was one thing to tell the villagers that he owned the land and quite another to lie openly to a Minister of the Crown.

Desmarais was evidently no fool. He ran his finger down an imaginary line that marked the western boundary of his estate.

"Oh," Aramis sounded surprised. "Then this great forest is not yours? That is a pity for I expect the hunting possibilities would be good there."

Desmarais eyed him suspiciously. What was the Minister driving at? Had he heard anything? If so, from whom? Even as he looked at the tall, well-dressed ex-soldier, Aramis flashed him a disarmingly warm smile which he tentatively returned. "No, Minister. There are several privately owned small holdings between the forest and my boundaries."

"Ah, that is most unfortunate, Baron," Aramis said breezily and then abruptly changed the subject. "I have been concerned about what you told me regarding the unrest that has resulted because of the increased taxation imposed by us here in Paris. It is most unfortunate that you have had to deal with this and I want to be reassured that you will not have to confront any further problems."

"I thank you, Minister, for your concern but one of my men has come from the estate to update me. It seems all is quiet and one of the remaining two fugitives has been apprehended," Desmarais explained.

"That is good news indeed," Aramis agreed. "That means the Musketeers will be taking four prisoners off your hands."

Desmarais visibly winced for he had begun to hope that the Minister would have forgotten about the musketeer involvement, especially when he had not been seen so frequently at court over the preceding three days. The Baron was aware of some of the whispering amongst those at court regarding the Minister's absence; there was much speculation as to a new female companion but other observers had seen him heading towards the garrison and criticism was levelled at him for spending too much time with old friends. Desmarais had also been on the lookout for the General Porthos, of whom he had heard so much but he, apparently, was in the same friendship grouping as the Musketeer Captain and the First Minister.

On the periphery of one group of courtiers, he had dared to wonder aloud how such an incongruous trio had formed a friendship.

"It is clear, Desmarais, that you have not been at court for far too long," a flamboyantly dressed, obnoxious courtier had observed in a loud voice and with a braying laugh. "Did you not know that these three men were serving musketeers together? Two were heroes of the conflict with Spain and all were involved in the defeat of the Duc d'Orleans when he tried to seize the throne on the death of his brother, Louis. There was a fourth, apparently, who was the current Captain's immediate predecessor."

"Did he die?" Desmarais asked, his curiosity stirred. He had never imagined that the current First Minister was an ex-soldier and Musketeer at that. It was common knowledge that the Minister for War and short-lived Regent had been a Musketeer Captain as well. What was this? A regimental take-over that several of them had been rapidly elevated in position? They were not to be underestimated then as they had served as brothers-in-arms and appeared to be close friends. It would be unwise of him to underestimate them.

"No, he resigned his command and left Paris. Word was that the pressure proved too much for him. He left Paris and has never been seen again, or so the story goes."

Desmarais then tasked Benoit with making further discreet enquiries as to the stories about the quartet who were referred to as the _Inseparables;_ a name, it was said, that was coined by their Captain in the early years of their brotherhood, the Captain who later became Regent to the country. The Baron wanted to know more about the nature of the three men with whom he was dealing but he was still ignorant of much of that when Aramis sent a message requiring his presence at his earliest convenience. That usually meant immediately; it was accepted that one did not keep the First Minister waiting.

"When do you wish to collect the prisoners?" he asked now, endeavouring to appear as co-operative as possible.

Aramis gave a non-committal wave of the hand. "Whenever you decide to leave for your estate is convenient. Captain d'Artagnan will send men to escort you on the journey. There have been recent reports of robbers along the highways of late, maybe even deserters from the army, and whilst every effort is made to keep the routes as safe as possible for honest folk, you will appreciate that it is a difficult undertaking."

Desmarais had not wanted the musketeers to travel with him but he could not think of a viable excuse to travel alone. The mention of deserters gave him the opening for which he sought to broach the subject of the war with Spain.

"It has been a matter of great consternation to my neighbours and me that the Spanish have been so problematic in the northern part of the country. Do you think we are safe or does the risk continue from them or a vast hoard of deserters?" Desmarais assumed a suitably concerned air.

"The Spanish have retreated for the time being but we must not ignore the probability of further incursions onto French soil," Aramis answered.

"But will you increase French forces in the north? We must be protected, Minister," the Baron persisted.

"I assure you all that is necessary will be done to protect His Majesty's people in the north," Aramis assured him whilst remaining deliberately vague and the Baron had the common sense to refrain from asking any more.

"I wonder, Minister, perhaps you would do me the honour of dining with me at my rooms near here before I leave Paris. The invitation is, of course, extended to Captain d'Artagnan as a sign of my thanks for the protection his men will provide." He suddenly smiled as if a new thought had just struck him. "I understand General Porthos is a good friend of yours; he would be most welcome to join us. I would be most interested in hearing him speak of the front line."

"Thank you, Baron. We shall consider it," Aramis replied with apparently genuine pleasure.

His thoughts were running in a completely different direction. What was Desmarais up to and why was he trying so hard?

III

Constance concentrated upon her sewing, fashioning a bonnet for the new baby as she sat beside the bed where Athos lay sleeping. The room was silent except for his steady, rhymical breathing of the man. He lay on his back, head turned towards her, left hand resting lightly on his chest and the other on the pillow, as if framing his face. He looked and smelt cleaner than when she had first seen him at the garrison but he was still desperately pale, long lashes fanning the fine bone structure of his cheeks. She wanted to reach out to touch him, to reassure herself that he was there, but she resisted the temptation for fear of disturbing him. The others had often spoken of how lightly he slept in the field, the slightest noise bringing him awake to a battle-ready alertness. Now, though, he slept deeply, the rest of the utterly exhausted and she knew that had to be the result of emotional stress, physical exertion and the remnants of his illness. D'Artagnan had expressly instructed her that should Athos show signs of being agitated or in the throes of a nightmare, she was to summon her husband immediately from his office where he was interviewing several applicants to the regiment.

But all was quiet and she smiled to herself. He looked so vulnerable as he lay there but his features were at least calm. Suddenly he stirred, sighing as he shifted position slightly and then settled.

She resumed her sewing only to give a suppressed gasp as the child within her moved awkwardly. She lay a protective had on her swollen belly and rubbed it gently, as if trying to still the impatient baby.

"Fist or foot?"

The unexpected voice made her jump and she looked across at the bed to see a pair of clear green eyes watching her intently.

She smiled at him, glad to see him so aware. "Foot, I think," she answered.

Athos gave a soft snort of amusement. "Raoul kicked and punched Sylvie a lot in the latter stages of her pregnancy. He always seemed to wait until she was at rest and then he would become active. She called him her little soldier and always said he would come out fighting to establish his place in the world. The new baby had also begun to make its presence felt."

She held her breath, overwhelmed by what Athos had shared and gauging his reaction to his own words, but instead of the tell-tale signs of an emergent grief, he seemed relaxed, caught in a gentle, fond memory. She did not want to break the moment but her unborn child had other plans and she grimaced again at the painful result.

"I need to move; perhaps he'll settle again," she commented, easing herself to her feet with a groan.

"Like father, like son," Athos commented as he sat up. Constance leaned to plump the pillows up behind him for support. "d'Artagnan was ever on the move and I dare say little has changed."

"Of course not," she replied. "I tell him he marches in his sleep; he is never still."

She was rewarded by a soft laugh and she handed him a cup of water before gathering her sewing together. "I will take advantage of your being awake and go and get you some broth. Then, later, you might be ready for something more substantial. The others will all be back here for dinner and will sit with you."

Athos sipped at the water and then shook his head. "I have been abed too long. With your agreement, I would like to join you all at the table."

Her smile broadened. "We would all like that very much, if you feel that you are up to it. It is not good that you try to do too much too soon."

"I might need a little support to get there but I am sure that I can manage it," he assured her, the corners of his mouth twitching with pleasure.

"I laid out some of d'Artagnan's clothes for you when they first brought you here." She indicated the clothing that lay over the chair below the window and then studied his long hair and unkempt beard. She looked from him to the scissors in her hand. "But if you are going to sit at my table this evening, we need to tidy you up first."


	11. Chapter 11

_**Dear all, sorry this is a short chapter. I wrote it longhand whilst away over the weekend and it is actually much longer but I have been typing it up frantically this evening. It is now after midnight and I need to turn in as I am off gallivanting again in the morning until Wednesday so I am loading this to tide you over until then. Sorry in advance if there are any errors; I have been bad and not carefully proofread it.**_

 _ **Many thanks to all of you who responded to the last chapter. So Athos looks to be recovering now. I will get back to you on your wonderful comments and any that might come in for this one by the end of the week. Have fun! V**_

CHAPTER 11

"I believe that is the man I am wanting to meet," Desmarais said, having surveyed the large reception room and identified Porthos from the many descriptions he had secured.

"So what do you propose to do now?" Benoit asked. "Just walk up to him and introduce yourself?"

"Why not?" the Baron argued. His eyes raked the crowded room once more. "There are some musketeers on duty. See what you can find out about our 'intrepid trio' and their 'lost brother." His tone was scathing as he mentioned the _Inseparables_ but his face adopted a smile – which Benoit thought resembled a sneer – and headed across the room to the powerfully built officer who easily stood a head and shoulders taller than the assembled courtiers.

There was nothing particular happening at this juncture but many remained in the reception room to be seen and glean the gossip, reluctant as they were to be the first to leave in case they became the main topic of conversation. It seemed the insecurity and suspicion still ran deep within the royal court.

Benoit ran an index finger around the inside of the tight coat collar he was wearing. To accompany the Baron into such illustrious surroundings, he had to dress the part and he felt doubly aggrieved at the cost and the resultant discomfort. This was the price he had to pay apparently to move in such exalted circles, even though he was only a glorified protector to Desmarais and expected to remain in the background.

The sooner he achieved his task, the better. Off to the right and standing in the corner, which provided him with an ample view of proceedings, was a musketeer whose youthfulness suggested that he ought still to be in short britches rather than the leather uniform and pauldron of an élite group of fighters.

Benoit sidled up to him and openly stared at the young man.

Brujon bore it resolutely for a few minutes and then risked a sanction by speaking aloud whilst on duty.

"May I help you with anything, Sir?"

Benoit struggled to suppress a grin; it was not often that he was addressed as 'sir'.

"I mean no offence but I cannot help thinking that you appear a little young to be a musketeer," Benit goaded.

"None taken," Brujon said, trying not to appear vexed, "but I am twenty-three and have seen action at the front against Spain."

Benoit's eyes widened in what he hoped would seem a mixture of surprise and awe. "Really? Where?"

Brujon continued to survey the room and its occupants, occasionally giving a sideways glance towards the man at his side. "General Porthos took me as his aide when he went to the north. Three years we were there." There was a note of unmistakable pride in his voice.

"Then you know the General well," Benoit said, silently congratulating himself on the success of his first choice of target. "I have been hearing many tales of his bravery and prowess as a commander of such high rank."

"There is none better," Brujon asserted boldly.

"I heard tell that he was but one of four remarkable men who were musketeers together," Benoit challenged.

Brujon flushed scarlet. "I meant that there is no better general than him," he hastily corrected himself. "You speak of the _Inseparables_ though; they are legends in their own lifetime."

"It is hard to imagine the First Minister as a soldier," Benoit pressed.

"He was a very brave man and an excellent marksman, the best in the regiment," Brujon was adamant that he would make clear Aramis' undeniable skills.

"And what of General Porthos? What are his particular skills?" Benoit thought it would be useful to get a full measure of the men and their individual capabilities.

"His sheer strength; no-one could best him in hand-to-hand combat." Brujon chuckled. Can't even begin to think how many times he threw me."

"And your Captain d'Artagnan?"

"He's hard but fair, a great leader; we are prepared to follow him anywhere. We trust him and know that he cares for his men and this regiment. After all, he's had the difficult task of almost rebuilding it from scratch." The respect and fondness in his voice were obvious.

The news of his mammoth task, though, had taken Benoit by surprise. "Why was that? What happened?"

"One half of the regiment had been lost or maimed in the war with Spain in the south. Four years they were down there and a lot of men can die in that time. Some stayed down there, reassigned to other companies when the _Inseparables_ came back to Paris."

"Wasn't that a little odd, leaving men there?"

"I don't know the whole story but Captain Athos was investigating missing supply wagons. You can't fight a war when there's no ammunition to fight with. Once they got back here, so many bad things were happening in Paris that Minister Tréville ordered them to remain. He was the musketeer captain before Athos; he knew and trusted them," Brujon explained.

"So this Captain Athos was d'Artagnan's predecessor and the fourth _Inseparable?"_ Benoit asked. "Did you know him?"

"I served with him for the year he was back here. I was just a raw recruit but we were facing a lot of corruption in Paris, not least in the Red Guard and there was a madman, Grimaud. He blew up the garrison." Here his face clouded over at the memory. "I lost a lot of good friends that day."

"That must have been hard," Benoit tried to sound sympathetic. "So what happened with the Captain then?"

"He left. The Musketeers as they knew them ceased to be. The Queen renamed us the People's Musketeers – I'm not sure what that means. We seem to have the same duties as they had before. The way I heard it is that four years of war, a Paris he didn't recognise anymore and the death of Minister Tréville, who was regent by then, was just too much and Captain Athos needed a change. He had a lady by then and she was expecting their baby. He had the chance of happiness, a fresh start so he took it."

"Did you like him?"

"Very much. He was different from the other three, very serious but he knew his stuff. Later, the General would tell me stories about the days they rode together as a unit. They got up to all sorts of things but they got the job done. Athos was the strategist, the planner. When the regiment went to war, he was Tréville's obvious choice to take over and the men loved and respected him. The General swore they'd walk through the gates of hell after Captain Athos and I could well believe it from what I knew of him. He was incredible with a sword in his hand."

Benoit's breath caught at the comment. He tried to feign a casualness as his mind raced and he wondered if he was trying to make connections where there were one to be made.

"How so?"

Brujon could not conceal that he was awe-struck. "He moved with such speed and grace, it was breath-taking to watch and it was a privilege when he let you spar with him. Of course, I could never beat him, no-one could. The only one who could come close was Captain d'Artagnan and that was because Athos had personally trained him."

"This Athos was that good then?"

"Oh yes, he was the best in the regiment, the best in Paris and, some say, even the best in France. General Porthos told me about the time when Athos was challenged by the Duke of Savoy in the Palace itself. Some really important treaty depended entirely upon Athos winning."

"And did he?" Benoit knew he had to ask the question but he also suspected that he knew the answer.

"Absolutely. He put the Duke on his backside." Brujon glowed with pride and evidently wished that he had witnessed the event himself.

"So," Benoit paused, thinking back to another account he had been given and the wording that had been used, "someone could easily describe him as being a 'demon' with a sword."

"Without doubt," came the immediate response.

Benoit could not believe what he had just learned. He had to accept, naturally, that more than one man in France could be an expert with a sword but he could not accept that this was a mere co-incidence. Had the stranger who had cut down Desmarais' men been the absent musketeer Captain and war hero? The _Inseparables_ were probably similar in age, with the exception of the younger d'Artagnan, and from what he knew of the stranger, he could easily be of these years. He desperately wanted to ask for a more detailed physical description but thought it would be construed as an odd question so he settled for the next best thing.

"And where is he now?" Benoit asked in all innocence.

Brujon hesitated for he knew exactly where Athos was – back at the garrison – but he also knew from what d'Artagnan had told him that some men were looking for Athos and that no-one should learn of his whereabouts. The young soldier did not know who was searching and why and he was suddenly painfully aware of how much he had been talking and what he had divulged.

"I don't know," he said abruptly, his face flushing.

A young man? He was certainly that. Experienced in conflict? That was unarguable. A good liar? Definitely not, and Benoit resolved that he would pursue this further at another time. For now, he needed to find Desmarais and share the details of the conversation with him.

Brujon, for his part, was uncomfortable and fearing that he had said too much. He looked across the room and caught d'Artagnan's frown of disapproval. His heart sank as the Captain began to walk around the room's perimeter and he knew that his position was the officer's destination.

"I am sorry, Sir, but I must ask you to desist with your questions. The Captain is coming and he doesn't look happy, I have been remiss in my duty."

"My apologies, Musketeer. You can blame it on me," and with a wry smile and a nod to the approaching Captain, he moved away.

D'Artagnan stopped by the young musketeer and watched the civilian go.

"Talking on duty, Brujon?" was all d'Artagnan needed to say.

"Yes, Captain; sorry, Captain. I did not know what to do and I did not want to appear to be rude as he spoke to me first and was asking so many questions."

D'Artagnan's eyes narrowed. "Questions about what?"

Brujon was giving a good impression of a frightened, cornered deer as he breathed heavily, his face paling by the second.

"About you, Captain."

"Me?" d'Artagnan was suddenly perplexed.

"All of you. The _Inseeparables,_ I mean."

d'Artagnan looked again at the retreating back, wondering who the man was and why he was so interested in a group of men with a long history.

"I'm sorry, Captain."

Something in Brujon's tone drew d'Artagnan's attention back to him.

"I'm sorry," the young man repeated, "but I'm afraid I may have said too much."


	12. Chapter 12

_**The current adventure is over; got home this evening after three days in London so this is another 'little' chapter to tide you over. Will respond to everyone tomorrow regarding the last two chapters. Thank you so much for the great feedback; thanks also to the guests who have reviewed, I do appreciate hearing from you all. Apologies for any errors that have crept through here; I did do a quick proof-read and grammar check. More VERY soon.**_

 _ **Are things a little calmer in this chapter - or not?**_

CHAPTER 12

II

At the same time as Benoit was busy asking Brujon lots of questions, Desmarais was realising that he had the harder of the two missions, that of approaching the formidable General Porthos unannounced and with no intermediary to introduce him.

Biding his time by making a slow approach, he saw his opportunity when the Musketeer Captain appeared to speak to the big man and, smiling as genuinely as he could under the circumstances, he marched over and extended a hand in d'Artagnan's direction.

"Captain! Oh, I am so sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but I did so want to speak with you, Captain. I have not long left the First Minister and he informs me that your men will provide a valuable escort back to my estate. I am most grateful and hope that it will not inconvenience you or your men."

D'Artagnan sighed inwardly as he already detested the man and wanted as little to do with him as possible.

"Baron, allow me to introduce you. Porthos, this is the Baron Auguste Desmarais." He said it with a smile but his soldier companion knew from old the significance of the slightly exaggerated intonation and deliberate gesture. This was the man who was behind events that probably led to the deaths of Sylvie and little Raoul. Porthos all but growled, the display of white teeth in his subsequent grin bordered on the feral. "And, Baron, allow me to present General Porthos du Vallon."

The introduction was formal and both men concerned dipped their heads in forced acknowledgement.

"General, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I have heard so much about you and your exploits against the Spanish in the north." It was a falsehood but Desmarais hoped this encounter would drastically alter that. "Everyone is speaking of you."

Porthos doubted that but he appeared to graciously accept the flattery.

"I have invited the First Minister to dinner before I return to my estate and I was hoping that you would join us, Captain."

But d'Artagnan was looking past him and when Desmarais turned his head to see what was so fascinating, he spied Benoit engaged in conversation with a young musketeer on the far side of the room.

When d'Artagnan made to move, Desmarais stopped him with a hand on the arm. "I would like you to attend, Captain, as a means by which I can say 'thank you' for your diligence and removing the prisoners from being my responsibility."

D'Artagnan was definitely not paying full attention as he extracted himself from Desmarais' grip. "Er, excuse me, gentlemen, but I am on duty and I see one of my men is distracted from fulfilling his."

He was gone; Desmarais had no excuse for detaining him further and he was relieved to see Benoit move away from the young musketeer. It was time to concentrate upon the next part of his designs.

"General, I have also heard that you are a close friend of the Captain and the First Minister …"

"You hear a lot, Baron," Porthos interrupted.

Desmarais managed a light, affected laugh. "Forgive me. I have so little opportunity to come to Paris that I am anxious to know what is going on elsewhere in France and at the royal court. However, going back to my point, my dinner invitation naturally extends to your good self. I am sure you can keep those at the table entertained by tales of the front line. Do you return soon? Are you about to deploy more soldiers along the northern front?"

As Porthos' features darkened into an irritated scowl, Desmarais mentally berated himself for his unsubtle push for more information and he hastily back-tracked.

"You understand, I hope, that I ask as a concerned land owner who has lived under the threat of incursion from the Spanish Netherlands all this time. We have been spared thus far but apprehensions continue for the immediate future. We hear such rumours of the Spanish girding their loins and preparing for a renewed assault …"

"Do you indeed?" If anything, Porthos sounded more annoyed. "Then you hear more than I do."

"Oh yes, of course. Well I did say that it was probably all rumour," Desmarais tried to placate the unpredictable officer who was, even now, glaring over his head in the direction of the Captain and the hapless musketeer.

The Baron could see that d'Artagnan was bothered and he felt a wave of anger at Benoit. Had he gone too far? Could any benefits be garnered from these encounters?

"So, I hope you will accept my invitation, General. It will only be a little affair. The rooms I have taken are comfortable but not grand and will only accommodate a small party but I would be so honoured if you could find the time to attend," Desmarais blustered. He hated fawning like this but it was a means to an end; he _had_ to gather information.

"Propose a date and we will see what we can do," Porthos answered brusquely, for he had already made up his mind that he was going to accept the invitation; he wanted to find out exactly what game Desmarais was playing because he seemed overly keen to be more than a passing acquaintance with three of the four _Inseparables._

"Excuse me," he added gruffly before he, too, walked off in the direction of the two musketeers.

II

In the end, the three friends returned to the garrison together, all the while discussing Desmarais and the man who had questioned Brujon. It had not taken many discreet inquiries on the part of d'Artagnan to establish a name –Benoit – and that he was the Baron's man. The interest in the _Inseparables_ was becoming a worry, especially as this Benoit had begun to ask some very pertinent questions appertaining to Athos.

"Do you think he knows Athos is here in Paris? Did Athos go by his own name on his smallholding? Does Benoit know it was him who killed the Baron's men?" A stream of questions erupted from d'Artagnan as they entered through the archway into the garrison.

"How am I supposed to know?" Porthos grumbled.

"There are too many questions," Aramis said, "and the only person able to furnish us with some of the answers at least is Athos himself. Let's hope he is in a better frame of mind and will be more forthcoming."

They entered d'Artagnan's quarters to find Constance bustling around the kitchen, engaged in the final preparation of dinner and singing softly to herself.

As d'Artagnan kissed her cheek in greeting, she indicted a bowl of warm water and cloths set on the dresser. "Wash your hands and sit. Dinner is ready," she ordered lightly.

Aramis hesitated by the door. "I thought I'd check on Athos first. How has he been?"

"Leave him!" she said quickly and then, at his puzzled expression, she went on. "He has been fine. He slept for a long time and when he woke, he ate a little and awe chatted."

The three men were alarmed.

"Don't worry so," she assured them. "I kept my promise. I asked no awkward questions that might upset him. In fact," her features softened, "he shared some lovely memories." She would not be draw further. "Hurry up," she cajoled, picking up a bowl of food and transferring it to the table.

"Oh, I nearly forgot something. Sit and start serving yourselves," and she was gone.

Shrugging at her behaviour, d'Artagnan indicated that his friends should take their places. They all surveyed the table.

"There are five settings," Porthos noted.

"And five plates," Aramis added, counting the warm stack in the centre of the table.

"Do you mind if I join you, gentlemen?" a voice asked from the open doorway.

The three brothers leaped to their feet, their delight tangible.

In the doorway, his left hand against the frame to steady himself and his right lightly resting on Constance's shoulder, stood Athos. He tried hard not to lean on her too much but she had one arm tightly round his waist and the other hand on his chest, as if she expected to be able to catch him if he suddenly pitched forward.

He shuffled a few paces into the room and it was clear that even d'Artagnan's clothing hung loose on his frame, but the biggest transformation was facially. With clean hair cut much shorter and a close-trimmed beard, he appeared years younger, if the onlookers could successfully ignore his dark-ringed eyes.

"Ain't you a sight!" Porthos began.

"At last! Now we can greet you properly," and Aramis, his voice choked with emotion, was the first to approach, arms opened to engulf him in a welcoming embrace, even as he kissed Athos' temple. "I am so pleased to see you up and about, brother."

He reluctantly relinquished his hold as Porthos pushed him aside and gave Athos a hearty slap on the back that made him stumble.

"Sorry," Porthos mumbled, steadying before squeezing him in a bear hug.

"I see you still don't know your own strength," Athos gasped. The apologies were repeated and then it was d'Artagnan's turn.

There was such an uncharacteristic frailty about Athos that d'Artagnan took him in his arms and hugged him carefully, his mouth close to the older man's ear as he whispered, "I have missed you so much, brother."

And then it was all bustle and noise as they vied with each other to be the one to help Athos to the table and into his chair. At one point, Porthos reached over to ruffle the newly shorn hair.

"I like that look," he boomed. "Haven't seen you with hair that short since I don't know when."

"Since I first arrived at the garrison," d'Artagnan affirmed.

"Constance did get a little carried away with her task," Athos said self-consciously by way of explanation.

"I should think so too," she scolded as she took her seat and reached for a bowl. "This lot told me it was you but I had to make sure. It could have been anybody under all that hair!"

She smiled at the rowdy response to her words, the boisterous comments, Porthos' great guffaw, the general laughter and Athos' familiar reserved smile as he was, once more, on the receiving end of their affectionate banter.

It was just like old times - almost.

III

The light mood was generally maintained throughout the meal although there was an awkward moment when Athos asked after Elodie.

"She's fine but she's at home looking after…" Porthos stopped suddenly, embarrassed at the blunder he perceived he was about to make by mentioning his step-daughter, not knowing how Athos would react to the reference to the child.

Athos leaned towards him and rested a hand on his shoulder as he spoke with a gentle smile. "Of course she is; how remiss of me not to realise. You must tell me all about how your little one fares. Perhaps tomorrow?" he suggested and tactfully ignored the fact that Porthos' eyes had misted over at his self-perceived tactlessness.

"Elodie asks after you daily though, and she wants to see you," Porthos continued.

"As does the Queen," Aramis said.

Athos' head jerked up, a momentary alarm clouding his features.

"I had to share with her what was keeping me from the palace over the past few days. She was pressing me for an explanation," Aramis went on.

"'An you couldn't lie to her," Porthos observed.

"No," Aramis admitted. "She deserved to know the truth and would do nothing to endanger Athos, I am sure of it."

Athos said nothing and stared at his empty plate as if surprised at discovering that it was devoid of food, for he had taken little enough to begin with and had picked at it throughout.

"The Queen would like to see you as soon as you are able," Aramis continued.

"I will wait upon Her Majesty in the morning," Athos said slowly. He had his own reasons for wanting to see the Queen too.

"There is no hurry. The day after will suffice. She is insistent that you must be well enough first," Aramis added.

"Then I shall see her tomorrow afternoon," Athos compromised.

Aramis sighed; it was pointless to argue for he could sense Athos' resolve. "You are to rest until that time then. D'Artagnan can bring you to me via a back way and I shall accompany you to the Queen."


	13. Chapter 13

**_Dear all,_**

 ** _Thank you for the overwhelming responses to the recent chapters. After posting this one, I shall begin answering those I can. To the Guests, thank you for your continued support. To answer Arduna's question, I met Kirasum in London for a couple of days. We visited some locations in the 'Strike' books, went on tours of Buckingham Palace and the Houses of Parliament (amazingly beautiful places and definitely worth a visit), the British Museum and went to see 'Queen Anne' at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket. An action-packed and exhausting couple of days but great fun!_**

 ** _In this chapter, they continue to try to get more information out of Athos and other questions are raised!_**

 ** _Apologies for all the errors that crept into the last chapter - I counted at least five. I blame being tired!_**

CHAPTER 13

I

Constance intervened to dispel any tension at that point by spooning a little more stew onto Athos' plate.

"Just a very little," she encouraged. "You hardly took any before."

To appease her, he managed two more mouthfuls before finally pushing the plate away and Aramis recognised that he had fallen into a bad eating cycle that would need to be broken. He also suspected that Athos had not yet reaped his full revenge. He did not want to but he could use that as an inducement, unpleasant though it was, to cajole his brother into eating to sustain necessary strength.

Constance had provided ale and wine for the men to drink but, in his weakened state, it would have been unwise for Athos to imbibe much and he had allowed d'Artagnan to pour only half a goblet, which he then filled with water. When the others reached for refills, he wisely refrained from joining them, preferring to drink plain water. Aramis approved.

Throughout the meal, it was as if they were walking on eggshells, worried about their topics of conversation but, as they finished eating, with most of them satisfactorily replete, they all knew the matter could no longer be avoided and they quickly apprised Athos and Constance of that day's encounters with Desmarais and his man.

"Do you know this Benoit?" d'Artagnan asked.

"I know of him and I may have seen him around but I cannot put a face to the name," Athos admitted. "Of all Desmarais' followers, he is the one designated as his right-hand man, so to speak, and works closely with him. I expect that he would be party to the Baron's business. There were two others who were particularly associated with him." Here he paused and looked carefully at those present. The use of the past tense had not eluded them but he clarified things anyway. "They are no more."

D'Artagnan broke the subsequent silence as he thought through events as he knew them. "Desmarais told Aramis and me of losing two of his best men during the uprising in the village, but if you weren't there, I don't understand."

"It's simple," Athos said, occupying himself by refilling his jug yet again from the water jug and deliberately taking a mouthful. "I did not kill them; they were casualties along with villagers. I killed two others on separate occasions."

D'Artagnan looked at Aramis. "But why did Desmarais mention only two, when he lost four men in total?"

"Perhaps he did not associate their deaths with the tax uprising if they occurred later," Aramis offered.

"But they are linked if they are the ones responsible for …." and d'Artagnan hesitated, "for what happened to Sylvie and Raoul."

"Perhaps he did not mention them because there is something else going on," Aramis said, pointedly looking at Athos.

"Perhaps," was the cryptic reply. Athos met his steady gaze but had no intention of elucidating.

"How did you know they were the ones you were lookin' for?" Porthos wanted to know more about the two men.

"There were villagers who witnessed the incident, identified the perpetrators and told me their names," Athos explained.

"But supposing they were mistaken in their identifications?" d'Artagnan was perplexed.

"They were not," Athos' tone and expression hardened at the memory. "And I made no mistake about who they were," he reassured them. "I gave each of them the opportunity to make full confession before they died."

No-one at the table wanted to know how he had extracted those confessions for fear of what they might hear. They knew from the past that Athos was not a person to cross and, when excessively provoked, had a temper, but so much had happened in the three years since he had left them culminating in the loss of his family, that they were wondering as to whether they truly knew him anymore. Was he still their brother of old or was this an even darker, more dangerous Athos, consumed by guilt and a frightening desire for revenge?

"What do you know of Desmarais?" Aramis asked Athos, changing the subject.

"I have seen him a few times but only once to speak to, and that was shortly after I secured the smallholding. He came to visit, obviously curious as to who his neighbour might be but I have had little to do with him since. I doubt that he would even remember what I looked like."

"So, you were not one of those who delivered the petition?" d'Artagnan queried.

"No."

"Athos," Aramis began, his tone a mix of pleading and burgeoning frustration at Athos' limited responses.

Noting his friend's warning signal, his eyes narrowing, Athos was calculating the minimum he could say that would be deemed acceptable. It was not necessarily that he _would_ not say anymore, for he was not being deliberately unco-operative, but rather that he _could_ not say anymore.

"I was not involved in the petition," he began in a measured tone. "That was Sylvie's domain. I had already warned her about the venture and would have advised her more strongly about submitting it."

"Had you been there," Aramis finished for him, conscious of how Athos had phrased himself. "I take it that all of this happened during your absence?"

Athos nodded. "Three days elapsed between the petition being delivered by a group of womenfolk that included Sylvie and the attempt to get payment of the taxes in full."

"How long were you gone?" Porthos asked.

"A while, but that is not something with which you need to concern yourself," Athos said, his evasion curt. "It is enough that I was not there when Sylvie presented the petition, nor when she and Raoul died and when they were buried."

He had missed all that had happened then! Aramis was working things out in his head and guessed that his companions were doing likewise. If Sylvie had not gone to Desmarais as soon as Athos had departed, it was possible that he was away for at least a week. What could have been so pressing to take him away from Sylvie and Raoul for that amount of time or longer?

Athos had already admitted advising Sylvie as to the wisdom of pursuing the idea of the petition. Had she waited until he had gone and then been instrumental in the compilation of the petition? She had obviously been involved in its delivery. Had Desmarais been so angered that he had given the order for a terrible retribution that began with the order for all monies to be collected immediately? Aramis could well imagine Sylvie's activity, such was her feistiness and hunger for fairness for the disadvantaged.

There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach for he was now convinced that Athos had not yet completed what he set out to do. When they had first had sight of their brother, it had occurred to Aramis that Athos was saying some kind of personal farewell, that he fully anticipated losing his life in his efforts or, as a direct result of what it was he had planned, he would be apprehended and face the ultimate penalty – execution for his efforts. How could his brothers protect him?

"Do you mean to kill Desmarais as well?" he asked, needing to know and understand Athos' mindset.

Cold, green eyes fixed upon him.

"Eventually!"

II

The evening had concluded shortly afterwards and seeing that Athos was now on the road to some semblance of recovery, Aramis felt able to return to his suite at the Palace.

The next morning, following a brief meeting with the Queen during which he informed her of Athos' intention of visiting her in the afternoon, Aramis was back at his desk, much to the relief of Secretary Edouard.

"I have endeavoured to keep you apprised of the most significant missives, Minister," the man told him, "but there is more correspondence requiring your attention, not least several decoded reports from your sources."

"I'll begin with those," Aramis instructed and waited as his secretary placed the documents before him. "Bring me the relevant maps."

He spent a further hour carefully reading through the information sent by those in the Crown's employment, made notes, poured over the maps and referred to previous intelligence reports that he had received. It was not long before he thought that there was an anomaly and he went through the documents again.

"Edouard!" he called, and waited for the man to appear.

In his fifties, Edouard, whom Aramis had 'inherited' from Tréville, was nothing but reliable and efficient at his job. Tall and thin, his arms and legs seemed disproportionately long for his body. His receding hairline left an expanse of pale, sweating forehead that often gleamed in the candlelight as he bent close over his work, evidence that his eyesight was not as good as it had been in his younger days. Lifeless, stringy, grey hair hung about a face that was dour and he seldom had a smile for anyone, save the Minister himself.

"Minister?" Edouard had the ability to move about with an unnerving silence.

"You have read the reports?" Aramis asked, knowing only too well that the man would have perused them first.

"Indeed, Minister."

"And did you notice anything amiss?" Aramis frowned.

Edouard looked uncertain, anxious that something vital had escaped his vigilance. "I do not think so, Minister. Their content made sense after the decoding."

"I do not refer to the content. It is more to do with the number and origins of those reports. There does not seem to be anything from this sector again," and with his finger, he circled a region to the north and west of Paris that happened to incorporate Desmarais' estate. Why did everything come back to that insufferable man? "When was the last time we received anything from there?"

"Please bear with me, Minister, and I will check."

He moved to a tall cupboard against one wall and unlocked it with a small key that hung from a chain around his neck; it was a duplicate of the one in Aramis' possession. The double doors opened to reveal a series of shelves, further divided into compartments, some of which contained stacks of papers, whilst others housed scrolls. He reached for a small pile of documents from one specific shelf and rifled through them.

"The last report was just over two months ago," Edouard finally answered.

"Was there anything to suggest that we should have been concerned? Has our intelligencer in that area always been reliable?"

"Past reports have always been highly valuable from this source, Sir. They have given us much information and highlighted sporadic Spanish activity along the very northern border."

"Does this inexplicable silence mean there might be a problem now though?" Aramis persisted.

"I cannot be sure, Minister. There have been periodic silences in the past but none of significant duration beyond five or six weeks."

"And was any reason given for the lack of communication?"

"I believe one of them might have been the direct result of injury, Sir."

Aramis sat perplexed. "Remind me of our intelligencer in this area."

Edouard did not even need to look at the name at the foot of the first page of documents he still held in his hand. "He goes by the cover name of Janus, Minister."

"Bring me his last six reports and then that will be all, Edouard."

Alone with the documents he had requested, Aramis re-read them. Ignoring the fact that they had initially been written in code, they were detailed but succinct and, as Edouard had hinted, they had influenced many subsequent decisions in Paris about the forces and officers deployed in the north and that had included how Porthos' time had been engaged. Aramis had no idea as to the identity of the individual behind the name 'Janus' but he knew that he had valued the information provided by the man who, to garner the same, had had to travel widely in the north, even though he probably supervised his own net of informants as well.

In the three years that Aramis had been in his role as First Minister, he had had occasion to employ several new intelligencers. One or two of the spy network stemmed from the days of Richelieu but with the necessity for clear and trustworthy information during the early years of the war, Tréville had assumed the responsibility and had replaced many of those retained by Rochefort. As his own number of spies gradually increased, he then disposed of the services of any used by Governor Feron in the wake of the man's death and Aramis had, by and large, kept those Tréville had employed, based on their loyalty, reliability and value which depended upon the type of information they secured. Over the years, he had learned who most of the men were behind the reports, except for a few, and Janus was one of them. He suspected, though, that Edouard knew a lot more than he did with regards to the man's real name.

The intelligencers selected their own code names; many were mundane, although not obvious, and Aramis entertained himself in the dark hours of the night when he could not sleep by imagining the man behind the adopted name. He now gave specific attention to 'Janus': an ancient Italian deity who was the guardian of gate and doorways, protector of the state and bore two faces so that he could look forward and behind, to the future and the past. What sort of man would choose that identity? Someone of education with a sense of honour, a desire to protect?

He wondered again at the break in communication with this man in the northern sector and the possible reasons behind it; perhaps there was nothing to report or he had been rendered incapable of sending his coded missives. Injury had prevented him in the past and perhaps did so again, or he could have become a prisoner of the enemy. Spying was a dangerous business and agents were inevitably lost; once captured, the execution outcome was inevitable.

What had happened to Janus?

III

Porthos was helping Athos prepare for his audience with the Queen. The previous evening's gathering had drained his limited energy and he had slept well into the morning but now that he was washed, dressed in shirt and breeches and had broken his fast, he was almost ready to go to the Palace.

There was a light knock at the door and D'Artagnan entered, holding out a plain, dark doublet. "I have not worn this for a while; maybe it will fit you."

Muttering his thanks, Athos took it and slipped it on. Even as his fingers worked to fasten the line of small buttons, it was clear that it fit him with room to spare and the other men could not help but speculate on how much weight he had lost.

"I am sorry that Constance burned all your clothing," d'Artagnan said.

"It is of no matter," Athos said, moving so that he could glance at his reflection in the small hand mirror Porthos held before him. "Even I was conscious of how unsavoury they had become." He smiled and looked down at his feet. "At least she did not burn my boots."

"A small concession," d'Artagnan ventured.

"And she has polished them beautifully," Athos went on. "I appreciate it; they look good." He cast his eyes around the room and frowned. "I would have my sword though."

"It's safe in d'Artagnan's quarters. I'll go an' get it," Porthos offered.

Constance was busy folding linen when Porthos entered the main room and passed her to the corner where the rapier had been placed in its sheath. Curious, he slid it out a little and turned it in his hands, admiring the ornate hilt.

"d'Artagnan maintains that it is a fine piece," she said, stopping in her task to watch Porthos.

"It is," he said appreciatively, "and nothing like anything I have ever seen Athos carry, and yet it seems familiar in some way." His brow furrowed.

"In what way?" Constance asked, moving round the table to join him as she sensed his perplexity.

"I don't know. I feel like I've seen it before and yet …" He studied it more closely and then raised his eyes to meet hers. "If I hadn't known we put it in the coffin with him, I'd have sworn that this belonged to Tréville."


	14. Chapter 14

_**Dear all, I am not deliberately trying to 'short change' you and deliver little chapters but another adventure begins at 5.00 am tomorrow (less than 6 hours away) and I really ought to go to bed! As always, I am touched and encouraged by the numbers of you who read, follow and 'favourite' this story. You never cease to amaze me. Thank you, friends, who review.**_

 _ **So, are any more questions going to be answered here and are any more going to be raised? Read on to find out and I shall try to find some writing time in Rouen. Back next Saturday so ch 15 will appear late Sunday or Monday. I hope this little one will tide you over like the ones this past week. I will get back to longer ones soon – promise!**_

CHAPTER 14

I

Aramis had moved on from intelligence reports to other messages and documents and was soon so engrossed in his work that he did not notice the passing of time. He was surprised, therefore, when Edouard knocked lightly and announced the arrival of 'Captain d'Artagan and the other gentleman.' There was something strange about the way he said the latter so that it drew Aramis' quizzical attention.

"Well," Edouard said with a slight shrug, "I could have said it was Captain Athos, for I've known him long enough, but when Captain d'Artagnan referred to him as 'the other gentleman', I presumed that that was what I was to call him."

Aramis chuckled softly at the man's discretion. "The 'other gentleman' is just fine, Edouard. General Porthos, the Captain and I would appreciate it very much if you forget that you have seen Athos for the time being. There will come a time, I am sure, when I shall be able to explain things to you; it is just that I am not in a position to do so at present."

Edouard shrugged again. "It is not for me to say what you do or do not do, Minister, or when you do it. I just follow your instructions."

"And for that I thank you, Edouard. You know that I would not ask you to do anything untoward unless I had good reason and that is the case now. There are men looking for Athos and I am not at liberty to disclose the details but, suffice it to say, we are intent upon keeping him safe for the time being."

"I understand, Minister," and he embarked upon one of his rare, toothy smiles which gave him a somewhat sinister air, contrary to what he intended. He loved the suggestion of conspiracy and he would be the first to admit that life had become just a little too mundane of late. "Shall I admit them?"

Aramis nodded, rose and came around his desk to welcome the newcomers. His smile was immediate when he saw Athos stride in with a renewed purpose. He recognised d'Artagnan's clothing that had been loaned and could not miss the looseness of the carefully buttoned doublet or the belt cinched tightly at his friend's waist. Athos stood tall, immaculately turned out and his left hand resting lightly on the hilt of _that_ sword. Normally, all who entered the Queen's presence were expected to surrender their weapons, excluding Musketeers on guard duty. D'Artagnan saw where Aramis' attention was focused.

"Athos may no longer be a musketeer but he has long worn a sword in the presence of the Queen. We have already discussed this and he will remove it if required but he felt safer wearing it to come here, just in case he had occasion to defend himself," d'Artagnan explained, issuing a silent challenge to Aramis but the First Minister was not going to demand that Athos disarm himself. In the light of what he had shared with them so far, and probably for other reasons best known to himself, Athos felt more comfortable going about armed, despite assurances that his brothers would do anything in order not to let any harm befall him. Aramis hoped that Anne would similarly have no problems with Athos bearing a weapon.

D'Artagnan walked with them part of the way which took them through some of the back corridors towards the Queen's suite, rather than using the main thoroughfares in the Palace's warren of hallways. Before they reached their destination, the Musketeer Captain took his leave.

"I need to make my rounds and check the men on duty. I'll wait for you both back in your office, Aramis, and then we can all return to the garrison together for dinner." The other two nodded their agreement and watched briefly as he peeled off and went in another direction.

They could not avoid using the broad passageway that linked the main reception rooms with the private royal chambers but they moved quickly and without hesitation, their route so familiar after years of duty at the palace in their different roles. There were a few people about and Athos kept his head down, not wanting to be recognised, and consequently not noticing the man who strode towards him.

Aramis and Athos moved past, intent on their meeting with the Queen, so they did not see him stop, turn and study their departing backs.

Benoit could not help but wonder who the man was with the First Minister as they reached the double doors at the far end of the corridor and were both admitted into the Queen's apartments without question by the guards on duty. Desmarais' man had only been at court a matter of days but he was observant and carefully scrutinised all of those he saw, matching names to faces as a matter of habit. You did not get anywhere in service these days to a man who wielded power without being observant and no-one could accuse Benoit of having any shortcomings in that area. He watched the tall, slender, dark-haired stranger match the First Minister stride for stride. This unknown person had not been at any of the court events he had attended with Desmarais but there was something vaguely disarmingly familiar about the man and he immediately searched his mind as to where their paths might have crossed.

The doors to the Queen's rooms opened again and a servant appeared. As he hurried down the corridor, Benoit's hand shot out and stopped him.

"That man with the First Minister? Do you have any idea who he is?"

The servant nervously shook his head. "I am sorry, Sir. I have never seen him before but I have only been employed here for a few weeks."

Benoit released his hold and the servant scurried away. The man who had an audience with the Queen definitely looked familiar. Now all he had to do was remember where he had seen the man before.

II

"My dear Athos," Anne breathed as the men were admitted into her presence, stopped and bowed low. She rose from her seat and went to meet him, her hands outstretched as, defying protocol, she reached for his and clasped them tightly. "I am so pleased to see you again after all this time and desperately wish the circumstances had been different." Her beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Aramis told me about Sylvie and your son. I am _so_ sorry for your loss."

As she let go of his hands, they dropped listlessly to his sides. "Thank you, Your Majesty." His voice was low, hoarse and filled with emotion at meeting with the Queen again after so long an absence. There had been a time when he had never been more than a few feet away from her almost every day.

"And you? How are you? Aramis informed me of your illness. I never expected to find you recovered enough to come so quickly. I really hope that you have not o'er-reached yourself as a result."

Athos managed a small smile in response to her gentle anxiety. "I thank Your Majesty for your concern. Please rest assured that I am well on the way to making a full recovery."

She smiled in return but was not convinced and it was clearly reflected in her eyes.

"I wonder if you would walk with me a little way into my private garden? We will not go far and there are seats where we can sit and take our ease. It is my custom to have at least one walk in the air each day when the weather permits." Her invitation was couched in such a way that Athos would think he was doing her a great favour in accompanying her but, in her mind, she was helping him - he looked so pale and she was sure that the fresh air would do him some good. She was not convinced by his claims that he was on the mend.

"As Your Majesty wishes," he said with a dip of the head, "but I would like Aramis to join us."

"And be privy to all our conversation?" There was a teasing note to her voice and in her eye but, to the three of the them, it was clearly a serious question.

"If it so please Your Majesty," Athos answered.

Anne smiled at the two men. "It pleases me if it likewise pleases you, Athos."

"It does." He cast a sideways glance in the First Minister's direction. "It is time."

"I agree," the Queen said. "May I?" and to Athos' surprise, she slid her small hand through his arm and drew him towards the doors that led out into the garden.

"It is an honour, Your Majesty," he said softly.

Guards saw her approach through the expanse of glass and moved to open the doors whilst two of her ladies, whom she had earlier banished to sit outside when her visitors were announced, jumped to their feet and prepared to follow her.

Aramis was bemused but knew better than to say anything because he had the distinct impression that the Queen and Athos were allowing him into a private conversation. About what, he had no idea, but he was keen to know and fell into step behind them. They were not moving at a fast pace and he could tell from the way Athos attempted to hold himself that he was tiring fast but the Queen, aware of this and not wanting to embarrass the ex-musketeer, deliberately set a slow pace that he managed with ease.

She led them to a sheltered spot where a table and chairs had been set for her. She ordered refreshments and skilfully manipulated a light-hearted conversation on a range of topics until a tray of exquisite glass goblets and a fine silver jug of watered wine had been brought to them. Having sent all her staff out of earshot, she insisted on pouring the drinks herself and handed them round.

"Aramis has kept me informed and I understand you were away from home when the attack upon Sylvie and your son occurred?" she asked as she set a goblet before Athos.

Aramis took a sharp intake of breath at her directness and wondered if his brother would answer or, even to the Queen, refuse to be open.

"I was," he answered, although there was an unmistakable catch in his voice.

Anne did not fail to notice it and framed her next question carefully. "I take it you were somewhere to the north?" Athos nodded and Aramis' eyes widened. What was she talking about? More to the point, what did she know that he, as First Minister, did not?

"How long did that trip keep you from your home?" Her voice was so quiet, so gentle yet probing, that the men were mesmerised by her and Athos could do no more than answer her questions.

"A month."

Elsewhere in the garden, they could hear the murmur of voices of the ladies-in-waiting who had removed themselves some distance and could not actually be seen beyond the abundant rose bushes. The soft drone of bees and the call of birds in nearby trees were suddenly the dominant sounds.

"Was the trip itself beneficial?" she continued.

Athos swallowed hard. "I believe so."

The Queen gazed at Athos, her eyes misting over once more. She leaned towards him and laid a hand on his where it rested upon the table.

"For that, I am thankful; I could not bear it if it had been otherwise. France owes you an incalculable debt, my dear Athos, for yours has been a sacrifice beyond measure."

Aramis held his breath. What was happening here?

Sensing his confusion and disquiet, she turned her head to look at him.

"Aramis, let me introduce Janus."


	15. Chapter 15

_**Loved all your responses to the last chapter, thank you so much! Obviously the Queen's revelation caused a bit of a stir. Now, perhaps Athos will be a bit more forthcoming. Back from Rouen - great trip - and I think a future story will have to be set there! Please forgive me if any typos have crept through here. I will get back to you about your reviews but thank you to all of you who have taken the time to comment.**_

 _ **So where is the story going now? Feelings are definitely running high!**_

CHAPTER 15

I

Aramis' jaw dropped open and, undecided as to whether he felt more surprise, anger or relief, he attempted to express a combination of all three simultaneously.

"You are Janus." It was a muted statement, not a question in disbelief.

Athos merely nodded, his face impassive at the Queen's revelation.

" _You_ have been the one supplying the information from the north?" Athos nodded again. "How long has this been going on? How did it come about? Were you ever going to tell me? As First Minister, I know the identity of most of the intelligencers. There are very few I do not know – and _you_ had to be one of them. Why?" Aramis began to give free rein to his anger and his face darkened. "Did you not trust me?"

"Of course I trust you!" Athos tried to assure him. "That had no part in it."

"No?" Aramis glared. "Then be open with me now." He rounded on Anne, trying to control his deep annoyance that she had not confided in him and conscious that there was the beginning of an irrational hurt that went beyond the relationship between sovereign and First Minister. He had believed that, with their deeper feelings, there was nothing held back between them, especially of it was related to one who was his close friend and brother. "What other secrets are you keeping?"

Her face registered shock at his question and she stood there speechless. Her inability or unwillingness to give him an immediate answer was not lost on him and his imagination made him suspicious.

"I asked Her Majesty not to tell you," Athos explained, coming to her rescue.

"Your reason being?"

Athos sounded weary. "We had all been through so much that when I left, I did not want you to know the different kind of work I was undertaking. I wanted to spare you the additional worry and let you settle into your new role."

"So you had us all believe that you had taken up the safe mantle of a gentleman farmer." An edge remained in Aramis' voice.

"It was for the best."

"Is that what you think? How did it come about? You can't have just suddenly decided to become a spy? Did Sylvie know what you were doing?"

The barrage of questions continued and, as the Queen and Athos exchanged a knowing glance, she took up the tale.

"After Tréville was killed, I adopted the habit of spending an hour or more each evening in his office. I had been so angry with him when he took my son." She glanced at Aramis and corrected herself. "Our son. Then he was swiftly made regent – I felt so betrayed. Then he was gone, dead, and I was consumed by grief and guilt. I understood then what he had done and why. He was totally committed to France and the safety of her King. I had lost the opportunity to make peace with him, to make amends."

Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears and Athos dipped his head to spare her embarrassment even as Aramis felt the last vestiges of his own fury drain away.

"I could not speak with any of you or share my pain as you were all trying to deal with your own grief, first for Tréville and then in the aftermath of the devastating attack on the garrison; you were coping with all this whilst still striving to catch Grimaud."

The two men shifted uneasily in their seats, discomforted by the reminder.

"I sought solace of any kind. All I knew was that I had to be where the dear man had been to feel his presence, so I sat at his desk, in his chair, touched the quill he had used, anything with which he had had some contact, and that included his papers. I told myself that, as Regent, I had the right to read what he had written and that was when I discovered a specific document."

To give herself time to recover her composure, she refilled the goblets and took a sip of her own drink, whilst the men sat patiently waiting.

"Tréville was unhappy with two of his intelligencers in the north; they were in Feron's employment and he did not trust them. Whilst he planned to rid himself of their services, he kept a list of their informants in the region to determine their reliability. He was keen to establish a tighter network of communication and have just one dependable intelligencer with whom he would maintain frequent contact. There was merit in his intentions, I could see that so, when Athos turned down my offer to become First Minister, I put Tréville's plan to him and he agreed to undertake the task."

Aramis sighed as he fully understood what had driven his grieving friend. "This was your way to continue his work and his memory."

Athos gave a wry smile. "I have followed him for so many years that it was hard to break the habit."

It was said lightly but Aramis knew the comment concealed Athos' devotion and commitment to the dead man who, many years before, had saved him from himself by admitting him to the musketeer regiment and had gone on to become his mentor and friend.

Aramis reached across and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You have continued to serve him well, my friend. He would have been proud of you for you have provide many valuable reports that have aided us in our fight along our northern border."

He paused as Athos resolutely stared at the table top, unable to meet his gaze. Good heavens, did the man still find it so hard to accept any praise? There were still answers he needed, though.

"Did Sylvie know what you were about?" he asked again. He hated having done so when Athos raised his head, his eyes reflecting his resignation and inner pain.

"Yes. She was not happy with the idea initially and it was the cause of much friction between us at times but she eventually accepted that this ex-soldier could not easily settle into the role of 'gentleman farmer', as you so aptly put it. At least I was with her for long periods of time that would not have been possible had I remained in post here in Paris."

"Perhaps not if you had remained as Captain of the musketeers, but not so if you had been First Minister; the duties of the First Minister have ensured that Aramis has stayed in Paris here in the Palace," and she smiled warmly in his direction as she referred to him.

Aramis returned the smile but there was a reticence in his heart. His responsibilities certainly kept him at the Palace and as much as he welcomed the opportunity to spend as much time as he did in the company of the woman he loved and their son, and the diverse people with whom he came into contact, he did find it confining after three years. There was a restlessness of spirit and a desire for the type of adventures that he and his brothers had experienced in the years before war had been declared with Spain.

He sought to return the discussion to safer ground, namely finding out exactly what Athos had been doing in his role of intelligencer. His friend seemed to be in the mood to talk at last and he was determined to find out as much as possible before Athos decided to fall silent once more. "What was happening during the early months when we did not hear from you?"

"For the first three, Sylvie and I were on the road as I re-established the network of informants and terminated arrangements with those deemed unreliable. My task took me to the Louviers area and it was there we decided to stop, not least because Sylvie's pregnancy was advancing and she no longer wanted to travel. We found available land and with money I had left and a sum generously given to us by Her Majesty, we were able to purchase the small holding and settle down in time for Raoul's arrival."

"My generosity had an ulterior motive," Anne said warmly. "I wanted to maintain your services for France; there are few whom I can trust implicitly and after all that you had done, your loyalty was without dispute."

Athos acknowledged her comment with a slight dip of his head. "And with subsequent payment for my work, it helped us through a bad winter and enabled us to help our neighbours a little, especially when the taxes were increased. We could not solve all ills but Sylvie was insistent that we do what we could." He hesitated at the mention of her name, an innate sadness darkening his expression.

"I am sure that Sylvie did much to help the people in the area," Anne said softly.

"I told her that she tried to do too much at times," Athos continued as his eyes stared unseeing into the distance with the resurgence of another memory. "She did as she had always done; fought for and looked after those less fortunate whereas I went on doing all that I had known, working in some way for the Crown."

"Some things do not change then," Aramis said. "You did well in your work. Without the high standard of detailed information coming from 'Janus', Porthos and all our forces would have been in serious trouble more often along that northern border, especially when the Spanish were intent upon reaching Paris. Your work was evidently not without its dangers."

Athos looked puzzled.

"Your injuries. When you collapsed, I examined you and found two scars that were not there before."

Anne gasped at Aramis' pronouncement and she looked to Athos for further explanation. He merely shrugged.

"I was shot in the shoulder in Abbeville when I ran across a Spanish patrol by accident but some local people took me in, hid me and tended my wound so that I was fully healed before I returned home and only had to explain the scar to Sylvie after the event.

"The result of the sword fight in Amiens was another matter. That incident was a little too close for comfort. By the time I reached home on this occasion, I was barely conscious in the saddle with a three-day old wound, severe blood loss and a rampant infection. I do not remember dismounting and getting into the house, or the next five days as I battled a raging fever. Once I recovered, I faced the full force of Sylvie's wrath. Raoul had just celebrated his first birthday and she had been convinced that I was about to leave him fatherless. It was several weeks before she resigned herself to the fact that I was not going to surrender my role as intelligencer in Normandy and western Picardy."

"It is a huge region," Aramis admitted.

"But I have a strong network of informants now and they do much of the work for me," Athos insisted. "It is only when they raise something significant that needs more detailed investigation or verification that I become closely involved and make further inquiries."

There was a lull in the conversation as Aramis realised what had transpired. "And it was something significant that took you away from Sylvie and Raoul when the uprising occurred?" he pressed, but he feared that he had pushed too hard when Athos' head dropped, his emotions running rife.

Anne turned to Aramis, her eyes wide with concern as she wondered if she ought to make a discreet exit and leave the two men together; it distressed her to see Athos like this when he had always seemed so controlled. Aramis gestured to her to remain in her seat even as he gripped Athos' forearm to signal his support.

There was a long pause as Athos recovered himself but then, suddenly, he took a deep breath and studied them both. "I had been suspicious for a long time that there was a traitor in the northern region who was supplying information to the Spanish and at last I received some sort of lead and so I was absent from home as I investigated the limited report that had come my way."

"You said earlier that it had been beneficial so I take it that you found out something about the traitor?" Anne asked.

"It took me long enough and I have a name but no strong evidence with which to progress. What is ironic is that I need not have moved too far from home." With his last comment, Athos sounded bitter.

"Why is that?" Aramis wondered.

"The name I have is Auguste Desmarais."

A stunned, disbelieving silence followed.

"You are sure?" Aramis asked eventually.

"Absolutely," Athos said, "but as I said, I do not have any hard proof. As I journeyed, I made various plans and fully intended to watch him closely but when I returned home …" his voice trailed off. "I failed in my duty; I am sorry," he whispered.

Aramis was horrified. "How do you reach that conclusion?"

"I have done nothing since about obtaining the necessary evidence."

Anne's hand covered his. "Of course not, Athos. You have no need to apologise and I will not hear it. You have been through a time of great sorrow and we fully understand. Don't we, Aramis?"

Before the First Minister could add his agreement, Athos shook his head vehemently. "I put personal anger and the desire for revenge before my duty to you and the country."

"Enough!" Aramis ordered more sharply than he intended but he did not want Athos to have the opportunity to slide any deeper into a pit of guilt, grief and even self-loathing for what he obviously perceived as a twisted dereliction of responsibility, both to the Crown and his family. "No apologies, not after what you have suffered. Instead, tell me what you plan to do to get that proof."

"I want to know how much of our taxes have gone into the royal coffers for I would suggest that there is a significant discrepancy. That money must be going somewhere and I suspect that it is not just information Desmarais has been supplying to the Spanish. I want to get inside his chateau and search; there must be evidence somewhere and then he can be questioned further."

"He has been keen for Porthos, d'Artagnan and me to go to dinner at his lodgings before he returns to his estate and he has already been asking pertinent questions about Spain," Aramis said, recalling his most recent conversation with the Baron.

"Then you should attend to see if it will give you any intimation as to what he is doing," Athos urged.

"And then I suggest we follow him to his estate," Aramis went on, warming to the idea. "There are prisoners to collect; that is reason enough for us to accompany d'Artagnan for it has already been arranged that musketeers will undertake that task."

"Prisoners?" Athos was quizzical. Aramis quickly explained about the men who had been apprehended after the uprising in the village and how, to protect them, he had insisted that they be brought to Paris.

"And who is this 'we' and 'us'?" Anne asked, her eyes narrowing as she guessed the answer to her own question.

Aramis shot her a mischievous grin. "The four of us – we ride again to catch Desmarais in his treachery. Just like the old days."

"The old days are gone," she remonstrated. "You all have different responsibilities. You, for one, are the First Minister and are needed here in Paris; it is not for you to ride out through the countryside taking matters into your own hands."

"Why not?" he insisted, the grin fading. "Cardinal Richelieu was known to travel through France at times; he was present at the siege of La Rochelle, to name just one conflict."

"That was then but things are different now and I do not want you to go," Anne persisted.

Aramis glanced briefly in Athos' direction but he was sitting quietly, his demeanour composed. "We will talk about this tomorrow. Athos, d'Artagnan, Porthos and I need to think about how best to deal with Desmarais."

II

The meeting at the Palace concluded shortly thereafter, as it became clear that the First Minister and the Queen not going to agree about the restoration of the _Inseparables_ to work together in investigating Baron Desmarais. She was adamant that Aramis was not to leave Paris.

For some time after Aramis and Athos had departed, Anne paced the floor of the room she used for receiving people and chewed nervously at the skin around a thumb nail. Resolved, she called for Guillaume, a trusted serving man who had worked for her for ten years. He stood patiently waiting whilst she wrote a message and handed it to him.

"I have written instructions on the front as to where to go. You are to wait and bring my visitor to my chambers via the back stairs. Is that understood?" she asked.

He nodded, bowed and swiftly left the room, leaving the Queen to resume her pacing. Nearly two hours elapsed before she heard a gentle tap at the private door in the corner of her chamber. It was not a secret access to her chamber but one that was seldom used and it was at her discretion as to whether it was locked or not; she had been instrumental in unlocking it before she had sent Guillaume on his way.

"Enter," she instructed and turned to face the visitor she had summoned. Her eyes were fixed upon the newcomer. "That is all, Guillaume, thank you. I am not to be disturbed."

The two continued to stare at each other until they both heard the door close behind the departing servant.

"I take it that this summons means you have a little job for me," the familiar voice was cold, almost bored. The woman had not changed since their last encounter and she stood tall as she held together the front of an ornate, claret-coloured cloak over a dress of midnight-blue silk. Her dark tresses were elaborately curled about the flawlessly white skin of her shoulders and past the broad band of jewels that wound tightly around her throat. Green eyes surveyed the Queen with a mixture of arrogance and curiosity.

"Milady de Winter," Queen Anne acknowledged her with a calmness that she did not feel, relieved that she had to call upon the services of her late husband's mistress very rarely.


	16. Chapter 16

_**Well this chapter did not fall into place as easily as I'd expected, but then I hit a block with my other writing too so I shall blame myself! The Rouen trip is already fading were it not for my hundreds of photos. Our route from Calais took us past Beauvais, where Athos had been when he succumbed to the sweating sickness and a little south of our accommodation was Louviers, near to Desmarais' estate and the small holding where Athos and Sylvie settled! (I didn't see either of them- the places, I mean!)**_

 _ **Many thanks to all who are posting comments, following this story and who have marked it as a favourite. Special thanks go to Enigma, Debbie, Beeblegirl, Barbara Liddell, 'guest', tricia 1630 and Jo Rawlings who have all written comments but I can't reply to you personally. I do appreciate the time everyone takes to read and review.**_

 _ **Apologies for any errors that have crept in here. I have been through it but I found five after I'd 'checked' and uploaded the last chapter!**_

CHAPTER 16

I

As the Queen was awaiting her visitor, Aramis and Athos were riding back towards the garrison. The First Minister repeatedly cast surreptitious glances towards his companion, concerned that the outing to the Palace and the emotional meeting with the Queen had taken its toll for Athos seemed drained, exhausted. Very little time had elapsed since he was battling an energy sapping fever.

"Stop watching me," Athos said suddenly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as they picked their way through the narrow, bustling Paris streets.

Aramis snorted in amusement. "You can't stop me being worried about you, my friend. It is not long since you were in your sick bed."

"I am much recovered, thanks to you. Now I can return to my task," Athos said.

"Getting the proof against Desmarais, you mean?"

Aramis took Athos' subsequent silence as an affirmation and sighed.

"I cannot say that I am happy about how you withheld information from me, from us, but I am trying to understand it."

"It seemed the right thing to do at the time," Athos replied, a resignation in his voice.

"But your information was coming to me!" Aramis objected. When there was no other answer forthcoming, he continued. "I presume we will now share what you have been doing with d'Artagnan and Porthos?"

Athos turned in the saddle to look at him. "The time for secrets has passed, don't you think? They will not be happy if you and I deliberately conceal anything more from them." He gave a sardonic smile. "We have tried that before, remember? And look where that led us."

He was referring to the months of silence they maintained after Aramis' night of indiscretion with the Queen when they had taken refuge within a convent and the dubious parentage of the Dauphin. Porthos, d'Artagnan and Tréville had sensed the tension that existed between their friends but they could never have envisaged the enormity of the reason behind the strain until events forced a revelation from Aramis. Despite the danger that ensued, there had also been relief that all was in the open at last and, Athos reluctantly admitted to himself, there was a similar relief now that Aramis knew his identity as Janus and his suspicions appertaining to Desmarais.

As they rode side by side, Aramis reached across and clapped his brother on the arm. "Let us agree not to harbour any more secrets."

"I will try, but do not hold me to a promise," Athos pleaded.

"And if I must be satisfied with that as an answer, then so be it," Aramis assured him as the gates to the garrison came into view.

Had they not been so absorbed in their conversation and endeavouring not to fall into bad habits once more; had Aramis not continued to feel the smart of withheld information between his close friend and the woman he loved; had Athos not been feeling exhausted from the afternoon's exertions in the wake of his illness and had they still been the active musketeers of previous years with honed senses and instinctive awareness, they might have realised that they were being followed.

Neither of them had noticed the dark clad figure who, despite being on foot, had kept easy pace with them through the throng of the Paris streets and who even now was watching them disappear under the arch into the garrison with a satisfied shake of his head.

II

"So, what do we do now?" d'Artagnan asked as the four men sat in their new positions around the table in his quarters and picked at the bread and cheese Constance had left for them before retiring to her bed for 'a rest'.

The Musketeer Captain had briefly followed her to reassure himself that she was feeling well and had made herself comfortable.

"She is in the latter stages of her pregnancy," Aramis reassured him when he re-joined his friends. "It is understandable that she will feel weary and want to take some time to herself."

"Yes, but it is not like her to want to miss out on hearing news," d'Artagnan said anxiously. "She told me I could tell her later; that is not normal behaviour for her at all."

"Who can say what is normal for a woman who is over eight months pregnant? If I recall correctly, Anne withdrew from public view for the whole of the last month," Aramis went on, thinking back to the time when the Dauphin was born and the weeks of anguish he had endured when he was unable to see for himself that she was well.

Athos had fallen silent and was not about to add his recollection to the mix, suddenly pained by the memory of when Sylvie, big with child, had begun to tire so easily during the day. By that time, they had found their place to settle but it needed a lot of work. Her efforts of a morning rendered her exhausted by the afternoon, until the day came when she had a resurgence of energy and insisted on weeding the overgrown vegetable patch behind the house on the small holding they had secured.

He had been up a ladder on the roof, desperately trying to mend the hole that they had not even known existed until they had been rudely awakened in the early hours by the noise of a thunderstorm and the chilling shock of water more than merely dripping on them from the torrential rain. At first, they had lain in each other's arms laughing helplessly at the experience until the trickle threatened to become a flow and Athos had dragged the bed – still containing Sylvie – into the relative safety of the middle of the room. A well-placed leather bucket had only ensured that they got little sleep for the remainder of the night, the sound keeping them in a constant state of wakefulness.

He had watched her from his vantage point and heard her huff of exasperation as she tried to reach the weeds without success. Then there had come the giggle of suppressed merriment at her own struggles but that had quickly evaporated into cross words which had then turned into some colourful profanity that he had never heard her use before. He knew it was time to intervene when she began shouting at herself in frustration and he led her back into the house, insisting that she rest before she could work herself up into an outright fury.

Sylvie had spent the mornings working at his side to get the house habitable for themselves and the impending arrival, and he recalled hearing his father use the expression 'nesting' to describe his mother in the days before Thomas' birth, when she went into a frenzy of ordering servants into a thorough cleaning and even grabbed a cloth to dust already spotless room corners herself. All this had followed a period of lassitude when his mother rose uncharacteristically late in the morning and retired for the afternoon, reappearing only in time to supervise her son's tea and bedtime before dining with her husband and retiring early once more.

Thomas had been born within a week and, if Athos' memory served him correctly, Raoul had made his screaming entry into the world a matter of days after the weeding incident.

For some reason he could not explain, he was unable to bring himself to share this 'fatherly' experience with d'Artagnan.

"Athos, come back to us, my friend," a voice said gently. "You are distracted."

He looked up to see his brothers gazing at him intently.

"I am sorry," he muttered. "What were you saying?"

"Porthos and d'Artagnan were wanting to know what we are thinking of doing now that we have informed them of your other identity and suspicions," Aramis explained.

When Athos admitted to them that he had continued to work for the French Crown, their initial surprise was followed by a barrage of questions and then a period of silent reflection as they thought through the ramifications of what had happened.

"I have to prove that Desmarais has connections with the Spanish and is engaged in some sort of treachery," Athos announced.

"And we will pay him a visit at his estate," Aramis went on. "He will be required to provide his books relating to the taxes he has collected. We will tell him that it is part of a series of visitations we will be making in the area."

"Will you combine it with the collection of the prisoners or go separately?" d'Artagnan wanted to know.

"I'd get the prisoners at the same time," Porthos said. "Don't want to give 'im the chance of getting' to 'em first to stop 'em from talkin' to us about those taxes."

"He wouldn't be so stupid, would he? There are four of them," d'Artagnan reminded them.

"If he becomes desperate, who knows what he might do," Aramis added.

Athos shook his head. "They are immaterial to any of this. I know what taxes I was expected to pay and anyone in the village could attest to what has been demanded of the people. He cannot silence them all so he wants to make examples of the four, a deterrent so that the people do not rise again. He intends their punishment to be for the crimes of killing two of his men and for daring to stir up the villagers into action."

d'Artagnan was thoughtful. "When we caught up with you in the cathedral, you said we should not consort with you, a wanted man, for you would bring us shame. Have you any reason to think that Desmarais definitely suspects you, his neighbour, as the killer of his other two men?"

"In all honesty?" Athos took a deep breath. "I could not say with any certainty. Before I headed for Paris, I knew that he declared a manhunt for two men; one he viewed as the fourth man to incite the unrest. He gave a number of excuses for the other and I assumed that he referred to me, or at least the person who had slain his men."

"Tell us what happened. You have already said that both men confessed to their involvement," Aramis urged him softly, omitting the fact that their involvement had resulted in the deaths of Sylvie and Raoul. "Remember what we talked about earlier." He was reminding Athos of their agreement to share all information where possible.

Athos took a mouthful of wine as he resolved to divulge what had happened. He told himself that he was giving a report, as he had done so many times before to Tréville, and he consciously disconnected himself from the information.

"When I returned from the north, Sylvie and Raoul had been buried for at least a month. I was shown their graves and, sorry to say, have absolutely no recollection of the next few days." He could not stop his colour rising as he confessed to an understandable weakness. "I drank myself into an anger-fuelled stupor. When my head was clear enough, the womenfolk told me what had happened on the day of the uprising and its immediate aftermath. They also gave me the names of the two men directly responsible and described them to me. I watched and waited until I was sure who they were and then I began following them until an opportunity arose."

His voice was level, unmoved and his brothers saw the same familiar detachment that they had been party to for so many years but now, given the associated personal enormity involved, it was imbued with a frightening intensity.

"I sought out each when he was alone, challenged him, secured his confession and killed him." He was so matter-of-fact that he could have been discussing bartering for a good grain price at market. D'Artagnan, for one, was holding his breath.

"Aubin Lahaye was first and, a few days later, I intercepted Gilles Godin. He had someone with him so I waited until the other man rode off and then made my move."

Athos had no idea that the second man had returned, hidden nearby, witnessed what had unfolded and later given his description to Benoit.

"Desmarais is hunting the man responsible for killing his men. The only way that can be linked to me is if he begins to question my disappearance from the smallholding. He, like everyone, assumed that Sylvie and I were married. In our minds we were, even if it was not so in the eyes of the church, but I expect that he knows what his men did and my abandonment of our home at the time of the men's deaths would be enough to arouse suspicion of my guilt. That is why I believe he hunts for me."

"You cannot accompany us to his estate," d'Artagnan asserted.

"I will not remain behind," was the immediate rejoinder.

"I agree," Aramis said cheerily before the others could object.

"But 'e could be recognised by Desmarais! He needs to stay in hidin'," Porthos insisted.

"I concur, but what better than to hide Athos in plain sight," Aramis said, warming to his subject. "Athos has already said that he has had little to do with Desmarais since he settled near Louviers over two years ago. He looks different now." Shrugging, he then gestured towards Athos with an open hand. "I know the weight loss and gaunt features are a bit unfortunate but that can be explained by recent illness, that would not be too far from the truth."

He slid an arm around Athos' shoulders. "Let him come with us. No doubt Constance can smarten him up even further. I have a lot of clothes I no longer wear and perhaps she would be able to alter them a little to fit him better." He winked at d'Artagan as if seeking his approval of a conspiracy. "At least it would keep her within doors, sitting down and plying her needle and expertise, rather than exerting herself unnecessarily elsewhere in the garrison. It would also give her a sense of being actively involved in our little subterfuge."

"Little subterfuge?" Porthos repeated, not sure that he liked where this was going.

Aramis was effusive as he continued to share the plan that had evolved almost from the moment that the Queen expressed her displeasure in his desire to leave Paris. "Dress Athos up in fine clothing."

"What's wrong with what he's got on?" d'Aragnan interrupted, sure that he was being insulted by dint of what he had loaned to Athos.

"Nothing, nothing," Aramis said dismissively, "but it is not quite what is required for what I have in mind. Having been a comte in a previous life, he knows exactly how to behave when accompanying the First Minister. Gentlemen, meet my new secretary, Emil Allard."

III

"I followed them both to the garrison," Benoit was explaining to Desmarais much later that same evening, "and I waited for several hours until the First Minister left to return to the palace with an escort of four musketeers."

"And the other man was not with him?" Desmarais demanded.

Benoit shook his head. "Definitely not."

"What makes you so sure that he is the fourth of their group, the former Captain?"

"They were easy in each other's company. Besides," and here he half-smiled at the memory, "when I watched them head down the corridor towards the Queen's rooms, they moved as soldiers: the way they held themselves, their similar height, the other man's hand on the hilt of his sword as he walked. Their posture is not something easily forgotten. Added to this, they had subconsciously fallen into step, matching stride for stride. I would swear to it that these men had been brothers in arms. It would explain why the Queen admitted the man into her presence bearing arms when others, such as yourself, would not have been permitted to do likewise. She knew the man she was about to see, and knew him well."

Desmarais sat in his chair, arm on the back and chewing on the knuckle of his index finger as he reflected upon what he had learned.

"And you think he is the one responsible for killing Godin and Lahaye?"

"He fits the description. He's certainly tall and thin but he had smartened himself up in his clothing for the palace. His hair is short but he could easily have had it cut recently. Even so, it's dark and not straight; just as the witness claimed but, more to the point, I saw his sword. It had an ornate hilt, just as Godin's man said. He claimed that the attacker was a 'demon' with his sword; this was not the weapon of a novice. You also must consider the young musketeer's boast of Captain Athos' prowess with a sword – best in regiment, in Paris and possibly in the country."

"Why would an ex-musketeer be killing my men?" Desmarais wondered aloud.

"We have already discussed this. He must be investigating your other activities," Benoit replied. "Think about it. Why else would he be seeking an audience with the Queen? He could have been making a report or receiving an instruction."

"Or he could simply be saying hello now that he is back in Paris. He would have served her for some time," Desmarais cut in quickly, trying to offer some feasible alternative.

Benoit merely gave him a withering look. "You believe that if you wish."

"And you say he looked familiar, that you had seen him somewhere before?"

"Yes," Benoit sighed, "but, for the life of me, I can't think where. I'm sure it will come to me though, given time."


	17. Chapter 17

_**Dear all, many thanks for the last round of comments. This chapter was partly penned on the train to London Saturday to see 'Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Parts 1 and 2'. Awesome does not come close but I am sworn to secrecy by Ms Rowling et al and cannot say anymore! Apparently, my reactions to what was happening on stage greatly entertained the young woman sitting to my right who was seeing it for the fifth time! At the point when I nearly leaped out of my seat and skin, she laughed and grabbed my arm! If you see both parts on the same day, you are assigned the same seats so you soon get to know the people sitting round you. Great fun and atmosphere. The JKR themed weekend continued with last night's opening episode of 'Strike: The Cuckoo's Calling'. Oh, my goodness! Well done to TB on a superb portrayal of the PI. Roll on tonight's episode!**_

 _ **In the meantime, the key players in this chapter completely took over proceedings and another, previously unplanned plot twist evolved! I hope you enjoy it!**_

CHAPTER 17

I

As with all the tasks given to her, Milady de Winter had no need to have any written instructions for she had committed everything to memory; that way there was no physical evidence to incriminate her or the persons for whom she worked.

Payment was more than adequate for her services and she was not one to ask too many questions when she received the latest assignment; she had learned that lesson well when she was an agent of Cardinal Richelieu. Subsequent employers, albeit temporarily, had included Rochefort and Tréville, even if she had reason to suspect the latter's motives. She had always thought that the former musketeer Captain had only seen fit to give her a bag of coin to ensure that she had the means to live without bothering her husband.

Quite what Tréville expected her to do, she had never fathomed. Did he expect her to go to Athos and beg for handouts? She would die first before she resorted to that. Perhaps Tréville had anticipated that she would make trouble for Athos and his new lady love. How had he put it? Athos had settled? Moved on? In all honesty, she no longer remembered and no longer cared.

One warning had been very clear though. Tréville had told her to leave Athos alone. The excuse had been that he needed to focus upon his task as Captain of the Musketeer regiment. Well, that had not lasted, had it? He had given it all up for the sake of that little woman; 'little' in both nature and stature as far as she was concerned. What was her name now?

Milady closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was only fooling herself for she would never forget the name or the face of the woman who had usurped her in her husband's affection. Sylvie! It had surprised her how much it had hurt her anew; firstly, when Athos had grabbed her by the throat when he thought she had done harm to Sylvie and, secondly, there was no denying it, when she had seen the look on his face as he leaped onto the makeshift platform, interrupted the flogging that Sylvie was receiving, cut her down and cradled her in his arms.

At that moment, Milady knew she had lost him once and for all. If anything, the yawning chasm of emptiness was worse than the moment when, with a noose around her neck, she had watched him abandon her to the fate he had decreed and ride away, unable to witness her execution. Five years later, she had felt something similar when she had manipulated d'Artagnan into challenging him to a duel and, even before the process had been followed, she had seen the young Gascon supposedly shoot her husband dead in the street. Beneath the anger, there had been a strange relief when she discovered that he still lived, that it had all been a ploy to entrap her.

When circumstances had thrown them together and they had joined forces to bring down Rochefort and save Aramis when the accusations of his affair with the Queen had come to light, she had harboured a vain hope that Athos would finally leave the regiment and join her in the safety of England, that they could rekindle the passion that had so marked their love in the early days of their short, ill-fated marriage.

But he had failed to meet her at the allotted time and, feeling that same sense of betrayal, she had departed alone.

More than four years passed before she returned and discovered that he had been promoted to Captain, led the regiment to war against Spain, stood shoulder to shoulder with Tréville to fight the corruption that ate away at Paris like a disease and had dared to love another.

And for this other woman, he had given it all up. He resigned his commission and left Paris – with Sylvie.

"He'll never settle to a life of sweet domesticity," she had told herself when she found out, when d'Artagnan took over the mantle of Musketeer Captain.

She remembered something she had said to Athos so long ago. Nine years, was it? Neither of them would know peace until they were both dead and she had always harboured the belief that neither of them would or could successfully move on, but she had to give him credit that he was clearly trying to do just that. She was still not sure how she really felt about that knowledge.

Yes, when she had gone to England, she had bigamously remarried. It had been convenient, bestowed on her a higher title than Comtesse, but there was no love in it, not on her part anyway. Her much older husband had died suddenly one night and when his adult son asked too many questions, he also met a premature end. She had been forced to move on again before she could avail herself properly of her anticipated inheritance but she did take with her all her clothing, the jewellery and anything else small that could be quickly packed and of value.

The money from these items had secured her passage back to France and maintained her in a very comfortable lifestyle but the need for a more reliable income had seen her return to Paris and employment, first with Tréville and then with the Queen. She had initially objected to their overtures, desperate to doff the mantle of female assassin, but spying and killing were, by now, too ingrained in her. She was undeniably skilled in these respects and they were, undeniably, a lucrative method of making money.

"Beggars can't be choosers," she told herself repeatedly, thankful that she had the means whereby she could choose not to be a beggar.

Her natural curiosity knew no bounds and she was convinced that the Queen had withheld some significant information from her about Desmarais and she could not help but wonder why. Whilst she was not particularly bothered morally as to the reasons anyone should want another individual killed, she was still intrigued as to what misdeed or slight should warrant such an act of retribution.

Milady did not know Desmarais; had neither seen nor heard of him until the Queen sent for her and laid out the task. It did not deter her from beginning her work though; sometimes it made her job a lot easier if she got to know the person and a little of their habits first. She had consequently spent the latter part of the afternoon and much of the evening seeking him out within the palace as he mingled with other courtiers. From his title, he was not a significant member of the nobility in terms of power and discreet questions amongst those at court informed her that he was not particularly well-liked.

Dressed in dark green silk trimmed with black lace and sporting a heavily bejewelled choker that concealed the mark of the hangman's noose around her neck, she moved with an artless grace about the large room, drawing both curious and appreciative glances from some of the men present and the jealous hatred of their female counterparts.

Selecting a point several feet from where Desmarais was talking with two other men, she stood alone, eyes fixed upon him until, sensing someone's scrutiny, he turned and looked directly at her.

Immediately, coquettishly, she lowered her eyes first and concealed the lower part of her face behind an ivory and lace fan. She was flirting and he knew it; the smile of invitation that she attempted to hide was betrayed by the amusement in her eyes as she dared to gaze upon him again.

Excusing himself, he broke away from the other men and crossed to her, bowing and giving her a smile that was a mix of arrogance and unrestrained lust. Which hot-blooded male, he argued with himself, could resist such a beauty?

"Baron Auguste Desmarais," he said by way of introduction as she extended her hand. He took it in his and raised it to his lips. Her skin was smooth and soft and he caught the faintly teasing floral scent on her wrist.

"Anne, Duchess of Bedford," she replied, snatching at an English title that she knew of but was not her own. When he raised an eyebrow quizzically, she suddenly adopted a stricken air.

"My late husband was an English aristocrat."

"Duchess, my sincere condolences on your loss."

She smiled sweetly as she withdrew her hand from his clasp. "Thank you, Baron. My outer apparel no longer indicates mourning but it continues in my heart."

To his horror, her striking green eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

"Of course, of course," he said, endeavouring to console her. "It must have been so unexpected, a shock."

"Indeed, it was," she admitted. "Somewhat older than me, he passed away in his sleep one night."

It had most certainly been a shock to all friends and acquaintances who knew him, for he had enjoyed spectacularly rude health for a man of his years and frequently boasted that his fourth marriage to a much younger woman had given him a new lease of life. She hated this so-called 'new lease of life' and wanted to curtail it as swiftly as possible, so she drugged his posset and rendered him unconscious, meaning that he could not put up a fight as she quickly and easily smothered him.

His unexpected death was explained by his advanced years and the presumption that his short marriage to such an exotic creature and his undoubted physical exertions as a result must have put an unnatural strain on his age-weary heart. Although disgusted at the assumption made and voiced by many, she had blushed appealingly and ignored the lewd comments.

She and Desmarais continued to make polite conversation as he offered her his arm and escorted her to a long, tapestried seat and established her there as he went off to secure refreshments for them both. When he returned with wine goblets, she demurely accepted one and took a sip of the burgundy that left her lips moist and provocative. Ever on guard, she allowed him to ask more probing questions into her marriage, late husband and what had brought her back to France and she spun a story that had an element of truth within its words. She had always found it useful to concoct an account that was not a complete fabrication; it made it so much easier to remember the salient points so that she did not endanger herself with a conflicting lie. Desmarais was satisfied and she had soon realised that he had a lascivious side to him that she could turn to her advantage.

"Enough of me," she had purred eventually. "You must tell me something of yourself, Baron."

"My friends call me Auguste, please," he insisted, blindly captivated by her ethereal charm, his conceit convincing him that she was likewise interested in him.

"Auguste," she whispered, fanning herself furiously in supposed embarrassment at his forwardness, something that he found utterly beguiling.

"What is it you would like to know? Ask away."

And so she had.

It had been far too easy and, some time later, they parted company. She had excused herself, explaining that she always retired at a reasonable hour, and politely but firmly rejected his offer of escorting her to the town house she rented during her stay in Paris – it was not the entire building, as she had claimed and as befitted her station in his eyes. That part of her tale had seen much elaboration but she was smugly satisfied as she made her way through the darkened streets back to her lodgings, concealed dagger ready at her fingertips.

She knew the location and size of his estate, his favoured route for travel to and from Paris, his recent troubles with unruly peasants, his constant fear of Spanish attack, his single state and subsequent loneliness, and his intention to return home soon.

More to the point, she had accepted his invitation to stay at his chateau as she travelled to Le Havre to go back to her own stately pile in Bedfordshire to sort affairs surrounding her late husband's estate. She made it clear that she wanted to leave her home on foreign shores, for the memories were too many and unhappy for her. In short, her desire was to return to the familiar bosom of her home country and the sooner, the better.

As she blew out the candle beside her bed and settled back on her pillows, she began to plot her next moves. The Queen had made it abundantly clear that nothing was to happen to Desmarais whilst he was in Paris but she now had a wealth of information that gave her alternatives. Initially, she would strike whilst he was on the route to his chateau. She would pack up and leave the next day so that she would be ahead of him to survey the land and gauge the best point from which to launch her deadly assault. Of course, she had no idea as to the size of his retinue; an assassination attempt along the road might prove impracticable, so the invitation to stay with him created countless other possibilities.

As sleep claimed her, she rued the fact that she had to kill him as soon as possible. He was incapable of disguising his interest in her and the fact that he held no appeal or attraction for her was immaterial. She could have fostered his fascination for her and seen where it would lead her. That he had been dropping far from subtle hints about his sense of isolation suggested that he was considering her for the position of Baroness. With his estate and probable wealth, he would have been an ideal candidate to consider as her next husband, albeit for as short a time as decency would allow!

II

Desmarais passed a sleepless night, consumed as he was by troubling thoughts based on what he had learned from Benoit. It was, he tried to convince himself, mere supposition that the man with the First Minister was a long-term friend, a fellow musketeer and erstwhile Captain of the regiment. If that were the case, then he was a highly skilled swordsman but was he the same one who had slain two of Desmarais' men more coincidence than certainty but the truth of the matter was he did not know and he dare not take the risk. If the ex-musketeer was the one killer, why had he done it? The only plausible explanation was that the man was investigating Desmarais' activities and, somehow, had learned of the involvement of Godin and Lahaye. He had probably interrogated them before cutting them down, thereby gaining relevant information that would incriminate Desmarais beyond doubt. The Baron went over in his mind the extent of information the men were party to and could not determine how damaging it might be.

Now, just to complicate matters, he had met the dark-haired, green-eyed beauty that was the widowed Duchess of Bedford. He was enamoured of her already and delighted that she had accepted his invitation to visit him at his chateau. There had been one Baroness already, a frail, mousy, uninteresting creature who had been foisted upon him by his well-meaning parents many years before. He certainly could not describe their nine months of togetherness as marital bliss. How she had ever conceived the infant that brought about her own death in child-birth remained a mystery to him for she had been repulsed by and disinterested in any intimate relations beyond the wedding night consummation of their marriage. There had been no sense of loss or regret, only of relief, as she and their still-born son had been added to the family vault.

There had been no-one else since who had captured his interest, partly because he had not actively searched for a life-long partner and partly because there were no appropriate candidates in the families of other nobles who lived within a two-day ride of his estate. That was until yesterday when he met the Duchess. Not only was he attracted to her, he also saw an answer to his problems. If the rich fabric that dressed her and the jewels that graced her smooth, white neck were anything to go by, she had been left an exceedingly wealthy widow by the demise of her English, aristocratic husband. On marriage to her (not an unfavourable notion), what was hers became his and the money would do much in enhancing his relationship with the Spanish.

By the time the night was over, he had resolved to leave Paris for he wanted to get as far away from this Athos as possible; that is if Benoit was correct in his identification of the man. In addition, he wanted to be back in the sanctuary of his estate to ensure that there was no evidence to discover, although he was as confident as he could be that such evidence was safely secreted beyond the walls of his chateau.

He did hope that a hasty departure would catch the current musketeer Captain unprepared and that the promised armed escort would not be available, the soldiers following in due course to collect their prisoners.

Desmarais dwelt on Benoit's accusation that he had said too much regarding the uprising over the taxes and whether he had been a little over-eager and indiscreet in his inquiries about Spain when speaking with Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan. In his head, he justified his actions but, in his heart, he had doubts of spiralling magnitude. He was already benefitting from his additional activities, securing and selling information to France's enemies, and he had been promised more rewards, including safety from harm when Spain's invading armies began anew their assault from the north. Extra money from the exorbitant taxes he levied on his tenants were an additional paltry bribe to stave off an incursion onto his land, but he knew that what he offered to swell Spanish coffers did not go far in securing and financing new plans for an invasion. Now if he had the Duchess's money as well …

He needed that money and more valuable information. Part of him wanted to remain in Paris, to spend more time in the company of the delectable Duchess and to foster his acquaintance with three of the _Inseparable_ s in a desperate bid to discover anything of relevance, but the presence of the fourth, whilst unexplained, was a cause of deep concern and the greater part of him decided that to remove himself was the wisest course of action.

It did not help his peace of mind that Benoit believed that he knew the man from somewhere but had failed to dredge up the exact memory. If, and when, that day came, it might be incumbent upon him to review what he was to do next. He had no desire to exact revenge for the deaths of Godin and Lahaye. It was unfortunate, for they had had their uses, but they were expendable.

This man, Athos – if that was the man's identity – was another matter and, if he proved too great a threat, the answer was simple. Someone would have to deal with him – permanently.

Desmarais fleetingly considered that Athos' removal from the scene might incur the unbridled wrath of his three friends but just as swiftly dismissed the reservation. Benoit could engineer something fatal without anything leading back to him, of that he was sure.

It was better to be safe than sorry and, mind made up, he threw back the covers on his bed, shouted for his manservant and prepared to issue a string of instructions that would include the rapid summoning of Benoit.

 _ **A.N.**_

 _ **Posset – of its several meanings, the one used in this chapter is a drink made of hot milk curdled with ale, wine or other alcohol and typically flavoured with spices.**_


	18. Chapter 18

_**Dear all, thank you for your ongoing support. This chapter was going to be a series of nine vignettes as things escalate but, after just three, the chapter was long enough! There is danger all around!**_

CHAPTER 18

I

Events that day moved on apace but if any of the participants were in a position later to look back on what happened and think about what was said, they would have realised that everything stemmed from Desmarais' decision to leave Paris as quickly as possible.

Benoit made his way quickly to the Baron when he was summoned and, unsurprised, listened obediently whilst Desmarais outlined his own plans for returning to his estate but his quietude ended abruptly as the main instruction was issued.

"You want me to do what?" Benoit exclaimed in disbelief.

"I thought I had made myself abundantly clear," Desmarais glared arrogantly, his expression daring Benoit to refuse to co-operate.

"Let me get this clear. You want me to kill a man even though we are not sure as to his real identity? All that matters is that he may or may not be a former musketeer captain who may or may not be responsible for the deaths of Godin and Lahaye because he may or may not be a demon with a sword!"

Benoit's voice was noticeably rising as he reached the end of his tirade and he paused to draw breath. Desmarais just stared at him.

"You are the one who thought you knew him from somewhere. What do you expect me to do? Merely twiddle my thumbs to pass the time whilst we wait and see if your memory miraculously returns in time for us to take the appropriate remedial action? Perhaps I do not want to take such a risk given the nature of my business and would be far happier to have that apparent risk eliminated."

"And if we are wrong?"

"Then we are wrong," Desmarais said with astonishing calmness in the wake of his sleepless night. "It will be unfortunate but the situation will be controlled."

"You think it will be under control as far as his friends are concerned? Do you honestly think they will lose a brother and not take some kind of action?" Benoit was incredulous.

"And who will they act against?" Desmarais demanded. "I trust that you will devise a means to dispose of him that will not lead directly back to yourself and, by association, me."

"How do you propose I do that? I am _not_ going to challenge him to a duel with swords. He is currently staying at the garrison which is guarded. Do you suggest I walk in, ask for his room, knock on the door, kill him and expect to be able to walk out of there again?"

"Now you are being ridiculous. I suggest you remember that I pay you most handsomely for your work and that it is about time you started earning it," Desmarais said curtly.

Benoit's jaw dropped in amazement and for a moment he was speechless. "I work damned hard for what you pay me and, as far as I can see, take a load of risks in doing your dirty work but this instruction takes thing to another level."

"Then I expect you to think very seriously about what you have been asked to do. I had considered you to be fully capable but if you do not think yourself up to the task, you know where the door is."

Benoit had the sense not to say anything but it crossed his mind that if he walked out on Desmarais, the Baron would probably issue a similar command identifying him as the next target for he knew too much about the nobleman's activities.

Desmarais took his silence as acquiescence and gave him a half-hearted smile that suggested their disagreement was already a thing of the past and that their usually good working relationship was easily restored.

"I will leave early this afternoon. You must remain here, Benoit, until the deed is done and then you can follow." Desmarais buttoned the neck of his russet-coloured doublet, pulled on the bottom to straighten it and picked up his stylish, feathered hat. "In the meantime, I must go to the palace. Protocol dictates that I must take my leave of the Queen as I had been expected to be here for a further week at least."

II

At the garrison, Athos had slept late. Exhausted from his visit to the palace the previous day, the others had left him to rest. When he did eventually stir, freshen up and make his way to Constance's kitchen, he found her sorting through a pile of clothing that had already been delivered from Aramis.

"There's a lot here," she noted as Athos began fingering the rich fabrics and added with a smile, "morning. I trust you slept well. I left out some breakfast for you," and she inclined her head to indicate the bread and cold meat she had left for him on the dresser.

Mumbling his thanks, he shuffled over to help himself, not fully awake and frustrated that he was not as alert as he would prefer.

She poured him some watered ale as he stood, leaning against the dresser and chewing on the simple fare. Constance fought to suppress a giggle; this was the Athos she remembered. Why sit when he could stand? It was a familiar stance - leaning against something, still, silent, watching things carefully and often with arms folded. This time, she was satisfied to see him eating without the need for further encouragement. She was doubly pleased when he reached for more bread, more meat. He was hungry then; that was a good sign.

Straightening up from where she had been sorting clothes, she was decided. "The dark blue, wine colour and brown are more your colours. I can't see you in the light green or bright red."

"They are definitely _not_ my colours," he said drily, an eyebrow raised in mock horror. She giggled again.

"When you have eaten, you must try these on. I have my pins ready and need to start on any necessary alterations."

Holding a hunk of bread in his teeth, he picked up the dark blue, embroidered doublet. It was a rich, heavy cloth and uncomfortably reminiscent of what he had worn as a young Comte. Dismissing the memory, he shrugged it on and did up some of the buttons as Constance reached up and started pinning the shoulders.

"Not too much to do," she lied brightly, appalled at his thin frame. How had he lost so much weight so quickly? She could not believe that he had been anything like this when Sylvie was alive. He must have forgotten to eat beyond the minimum required to keep body and soul functioning, and not even then if his recent collapse was anything to go by.

"Your falsehoods do not come easily or convincingly," he said as she put a hand beneath his chin to raised his head whilst she scrutinised the fit around his neck.

Her worried eyes met his. "The line of buttons will need to move."

He sighed. "I do not want to put you to so much trouble, especially not now," he added, referring to her pregnancy.

"Enough of that!" she promptly scolded. "This is but a small task to help you in your quest. Anyway, you must look the part. A musketeer captain's casual clothing would not do for a minister's secretary."

"Minister's secretary!" he repeated with feigned scorn. "This is so fancy, I might be mistaken for the First Minister himself," he huffed.

She laughed. "Perhaps. Now the next one."

He changed into the wine-coloured doublet and stood patiently as she worked on in silence, a deep frown of concentration on her brow. He studied her for a while and then cleared his throat. She had pulled up a chair and was sitting as she pinned the side seams to improve the fit, not looking up as she continued in her task.

"Speak what is on your mind, Constance. If it is a question, I cannot promise to answer." His lips twitched in a suggestion of a smile even as she sniffed and swiped at her cheek.

"It means so much to d'Artagnan, to all of us, to have you back, but it is of great significance and joy to him. You have been sorely missed, although we would have given anything to have this reunion under different circumstances. I hope you understand that." Her voice was soft, filled with emotion.

"I do understand," he replied.

"He always said he knew why you left, tried to reason with himself about it," she continued, still talking about her husband. "Well, we all thought we knew but it was obviously more than that, the spying and stuff. However, he blamed himself for a long while, you know."

"d'Artagnan?" He was surprised. "He had nothing to blame himself for!"

"That's what I told him but he was always wondering if there was something he could have done, something he should have said that would have persuaded you to stay."

"There was nothing," Athos reassured her. "We had all been through so much … I could no longer think straight. I needed time, time with Sylvie. It was a new beginning for all of us."

"And he found that hard. There had always been the four of you – until the war – and then Aramis came back. You were all together again, working and fighting side by side and then …." Her voice caught and she struggled to compose herself. "Then it all went wrong: Tréville was killed; the garrison was destroyed; so many musketeers were dead and you all split up again. Aramis became First Minister, Porthos went back to the war and you left."

Athos could not be sure but thought that he detected a note of accusation in her voice. "He was the best to rebuild the regiment; to restore what Tréville had started."

"You were the Captain!"

"And I stood aside for d'Artagnan. I always said to Tréville that d'Artagnan had greatness in him, that he had the propensity to be the best of us all, and he has proven that. He also had you by his side. I never wanted the position but Tréville had other ideas and he knew I could not turn him down."

"But you were a good Captain all through the war and in the struggle to take back Paris from the corruption," she objected.

He shrugged. "I did what I had to do at the time."

She reached up to cup his cheek with her hand. "Some things will never change." He raised an eyebrow quizzically. "You still do not accept that you are a good man; where you lead, so many will follow. You underestimate yourself and your skills."

He inhaled a shuddering breath and, to her horror, his green eyes filled with tears. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky. "I am not a good man, Constance. If I were, I would make better decisions in my life than I have done. I would have been there for …" He could not finish but she knew he meant Sylvie and Raoul.

Standing, she slid her arms around his neck to give him a tight, consoling hug and they remained that way for several moments until she broke away.

"When all this over, what do you plan to do?"

His glance slid away from her as he endeavoured to regain some semblance of control. "I do not know; I cannot think that far ahead. All I wanted was Desmarais for being the one who was behind what happened but now I need to find the evidence that proves he is a traitor. That is all I know for now. That and the fact that I can never go back to the small holding."

"Even though that is where Sylvie and Raoul are?"

He could make eye contact with her once more, his face determined. " _Especially_ because of Sylvie and Raoul. They are together, their bodies in the same grave but it is no longer them; I do not need to be nearby to remember them. I cannot go back there. I shall probably continue to work as Janus; I will be able to move about a lot more now and go wherever the Queen and Aramis send me."

Constance hugged him again and whispered in his ear. "Don't go back to being a spy. You will always have a home here with us."

III

"We are sorry to hear that it is necessary for you to take your leave of us but understand and wish you a safe journey," the Queen said, a modicum of disappointment forced into her tone so that she hoped she sounded convincing.

Inside, her heart leaped at the prospect of him leaving early. She had never liked the odious little man from the moment of their first meeting but news she had subsequently learned about his treatment of his tenants, his potential involvement in what had happened to Sylvie and Raoul and suspected treachery meant that she hated even the sound of his name. Anne was adamant that Aramis was not going to leave the sanctuary of Paris in pursuit of this man and was happy that she had made arrangements with Milady de Winter to dispose of the traitor.

"Your Majesty is most gracious," Desmarais said, his voice and manner oily and sycophantic as he bowed low. "I regret having to depart earlier than planned as I have enjoyed my visit to Paris and the Court."

"Then you must not stay away too long but make a return visit soon," Anne urged. Her lie was for diplomacy, she reasoned for she knew that, if all went well, the man would never be seen within the city walls again.

Desmarais bowed again and backed away from her for several feet before he turned and disappeared through the doors opened by the footmen. Once he had gone, she issued a hasty instruction to summon Aramis, gave a huge sigh of relief and sank back into her chair.

One of her ladies-in-waiting stepped forward with a goblet of watered wine and she took it appreciatively. She was sipping on it when another door opened and Aramis strode in and bowed.

"Your Majesty asked for me?" he said.

She flashed him a dazzling smile. "I thought you would like to be the first to know that Desmarais is leaving this afternoon."

Aramis' face clouded. "What?"

Her pleasure turned to puzzlement at his reaction. "He has been to see me to take his leave. The Baron intends to return to his estate this afternoon."

Aramis was distracted. "I need to go to the garrison straight away to see d'Artagnan. Will you excuse me?" and he turned to go.

"Wait!" she called, staying his departure. "What is it? What is the matter?"

"d'Artagnan was sending a musketeer escort with Desmarais, ostensibly to collect the four prisoners arrested after the uprising to bring them back to Paris. He will need to mobilise his men swiftly, preferably to leave with Desmarais or to catch up with them on the road."

"Oh!" she said, hand raised to her mouth in surprise. "I knew nothing of the escort."

He frowned for she had turned pale. "What is wrong? There is no reason why you should have known of the escort. It is an otherwise mundane task for the musketeers; d'Artagnan does not need to tell you or me of every daily order he issues."

"Yes, but this one appertains to Desmarais. I should have been informed." The Queen sounded angry.

He was bemused by her manner. "Then I apologise. D'Artagnan and I decided that we did not want to leave the prisoners to be dealt with by him so they will be brought here under musketeer guard to be questioned and tried. I must go and alert him."

"You could just send a message."

"I could," he said warily, "but I would also like to see how Athos fares this morning."

"Then go quickly and bring me word again," she pressed. She was not herself but agitated, insistent.

"What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed as she rose to her feet.

"Nothing. I … I have things I must do too. Then we will meet again."

It was ridiculous but she almost broke into a run as she left the room, ladies-in-waiting scurrying in her wake.

Perplexed, Aramis resolved to pursue the matter when he came back to the palace but, for now, he had something much more pressing. He had to see d'Artagnan.

As she hurried to her private rooms, Queen Anne was already composing the message to Milady de Winter in her mind. She had not been aware of the proposed musketeer escort and Milady needed to be forewarned for the instruction had been clear. The assassin was to act against Desmarais beyond Paris but the soldiers' presence would make a successful attempt potentially impossible. Under no circumstances was she to take a risk that might result in her capture and questions leading back to the Queen herself.


	19. Chapter 19

_**Dear all, sorry for the delay. Back at work now and hit the ground running - metaphorically, I hasten to add!**_

 _ **Thank you so much for the ongoing feedback. With the other vignettes, I have made this chapter a little longer in the hope of appeasing you all! Looking forward to hearing what you think of this one. I could have made life a little easier for myself - so many characters doing all sorts of things in different places, especially when they have a habit of taking over. It's Aramis' turn to do that this week. (Went to the live feed of a talk by writer John le Carre last week and someone asked him how rigorously he planned - he answered that he had the idea and knew how it ended but then the rest sort of 'happened'.) If you could only see my original plan and what's happened since! Some similarities do exist but the original intention of a fairly simple plot seems to have gone out the window!**_

 _ **Ah me! Better get stuck into chapter 20 now ...**_

CHAPTER 19

I

Milady de Winter read and re-read the message she held in her hand. Around her, a trunk and bags were in different states of packing and items of clothing, including an exquisite gown, were thrown carelessly across her bed.

She perused the chaos and re-assessed the situation. The plan had been for a servant to follow with most of her items whilst she rode on horseback for speed, but that option of travelling lightly was no longer necessary or viable. Everything that she required to maintain the impression that she was a wealthy, widowed duchess could accompany her within and on the top of her carriage.

News from the palace that Desmarais was going to have a musketeer escort was an annoyance but not as devastating as the Queen assumed. Milady undertook her assassinations with poison and knives at close quarters for she did not have the ability of the sniper, so there was very little chance of her getting close to the Baron whilst soldiers were at hand. There was a distinct possibility that she could have circumnavigated the members of his retinue, but not trained musketeers. She had no way of knowing in advance how many there were and whether the accompanying group would include any men who might recognise her.

Apart from the so-called brothers that included her husband, there had been a young cadet she had spoken to on her last visit to the garrison, to whom she had announced herself as the Captain's wife; she wondered if he was still alive and if he would remember her. It had been at least three years, after all, but it was not a risk she was prepared to take if it could be avoided. She doubted that d'Artagnan would be in the group to escort Desmarais. Tréville, as far as she was aware, had very rarely left the garrison and Paris when he was Captain; he commanded from there and his musketeers were sent out to do the work for him. It had been different for Athos as he led the men when they were sent to war, hence he was with them in the field.

So many musketeers had perished in the conflict with Spain and more had died during Grimaud's attack on the garrison that she thought there were very few remaining who knew of her existence, but she still did not want to cross paths with the escort. It was fortunate that an alternative remained for her; the invitation to Baron Desmarais' chateau would provide the means for her to fulfil her task. Even if the musketeers were still there when she arrived, they had their own mission to complete and she anticipated that there would be space enough for her not to be seen by them.

She smiled to herself as she thought of the repugnant Baron and his reaction when the Duchess of Bedford arrived for a visit; he would have expectations of her, no doubt, but of one thing she was sure – her visit would not end as he hoped!

II

In his office, d'Artagnan was pouring over paperwork, his frustration rising and made obvious, first by the numerous sighs that escaped him, then the volume with which he slapped a document down on a new pile and, finally, the increase in the crossings out he was making as he wrote.

His relief was palpable when there was a knock at his door, closely followed by the entrance of the First Minister.

"Come in," the Captain said as Aramis strode towards him, dragging a chair into place and throwing himself down on it, "and please sit down." D'Artagnan wore a wry grin but soon realised that his friend was far from amused. "What's wrong?"

"Desmarais has decided to leave this afternoon for his chateau."

"What! I haven't arranged the escort. He wasn't supposed to depart for about another week."

"How soon can you get one together? I do not want that man to have the chance to get back to his estate and those prisoners before you can get men there," Aramis insisted.

D'Artagnan did not answer but stood and walked out of the room. Through the open doorway, Aramis heard him shout for Brujon before he came back, resumed his seat and began scribbling on a clean piece of paper, cursing mildly as the quill had too much ink and left a large, dark blot spoiling the sheet.

A loud, clear knock heralded the arrival of the young musketeer and, on being told to enter, he appeared out of breath as if he had run in response to the Captain's summons.

"Sir!" He snapped to attention in front of desk.

D'Artagnan pushed the paper across the desk to the soldier and leaned back in his chair. "An urgent task for you. These are the men you will take with you when you provide an escort for Baron Desmarais back to his estate where he is holding four prisoners; you are to collect them and bring them here."

"Yes, Captain," Brujon answered as he glanced at the names of the men d'Artagnan had selected. "When do you want us to leave?"

"You need to go as soon as possible. I suspect Desmarais is trying to avoid having the escort for some reason so he is planning on departing from Paris this afternoon. You need to round up the men and get your things together. Collect additional ammunition from the armoury, food from the stores and medical supplies from the infirmary. Be prepared for several days and your prisoners. I expect you to be ready in an hour. Assemble the men and I will see you then."

There was a sharp intake of breath and Brujon's eyes widened in surprise. That did not give him much time to mobilise and organise eight men but there was only one answer that he could give. "Yes, Sir."

When the door had closed behind the young man, Aramis handed d'Artagnan a folded paper. "I got this for you; it's the address of Desmarais' rented rooms. Tell Brujon to try there first."

"When do you think we should go after Desmarais ourselves?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Let him get back to his chateau and then we will have the pleasure of joining him," Aramis grinned. "It would be good if Athos could have another couple of days to rest further."

D'Artagnan nodded his agreement. "We need to make our own plans and arrangements. I'll send a message to Porthos and get him over here this evening to discuss what we are going to do." He hesitated. "Do you want me to tell Athos?"

Aramis shook his head. "I'll do it. I want to check on him and see how he is today. Besides," and here his expression was utterly mischievous, "I want to see how he is getting on with the clothes I sent over this morning."

"In which case," d'Artagnan said, a gleam apparent in his own eyes as he read the address on the paper he held, "I shall go with Brujon and the others and introduce them to Baron Desmarais."

III

Benoit knew he was engaged in a futile exercise when two hours passed in his place of concealment in a doorway opposite the entrance to the garrison. The place was too well guarded and there had been no sighting of his target within. Athos – for he always thought of him by that name now, whether it was right or wrong – had not materialised. There had obviously been no need for him to repeat any visit to the palace as the First Minister had come to the garrison in some haste and gone immediately to see the Captain of the regiment. Very little time had passed until the officer had appeared on his balcony and bellowed for someone and Benoit had instantly recognised the young musketeer as the one to whom he had been speaking at the palace.

The place erupted into a flurry of activity with men coming and going, horses brought out and saddled, provisions packed up and he allowed himself a wry grin as he guessed where they were heading. So much for Desmarais thinking that he could outwit the Musketeer Captain and get back to his estate without an escort! They were moving with an efficient speed that suggested they would join the Baron before he left the city.

Benoit was correct. Minutes later they mounted up and stood in a controlled column, the young musketeer in the lead. They seemed to be waiting for something – or someone - and it was not long before d'Artagnan emerged onto his balcony, pulling on his gloves as he strode to the end and almost ran down the stairs, the sound of his boots on the wood reaching across the distance to where Benoit stood watching.

Another horse was led out by a stable boy and the Captain eased himself into the saddle. He exchanged a few quiet words with the young musketeer at his side and then the column filed out in an orderly manner under the archway and out into the Paris street, citizens retreating out of the way as they passed by. Benoit shrunk back into the shadows; he did not think that he could be seen but wanted to make doubly sure of the fact.

He would wait a little longer – just in case his subject appeared. It was highly unlikely that he would be able to act, given the circumstances and the number of soldiers in the vicinity, but he would have liked the opportunity to see his quarry - just the once.

IV

Amidst a final string of shouted instructions, Desmarais threw his cloak around his shoulders and headed towards the front door of the building, a servant standing at the ready to open it for him. Ignoring the man completely, Desmarais was concentrating on the soft leather gloves that he was in the process of pulling on and, subsequently, did not realise that anyone was standing on the top step and nearly cannoned into d'Artagnan, who had just been about to knock when the door opened. Caught off balance, the soldier managed to prevent himself from toppling forward with his momentum.

"Captain!" Desmarais was surprised as, with a sinking heart, he looked over the officer's shoulder and saw the young musketeer he had seen Benoit speaking to and, beyond him, a mounted troop of smartly dressed soldiers.

"Baron," d'Artagnan began, his face a picture of abject remorse. "I am so glad that we got here before you departed; it would have been remiss of me had I not provided the promised escort. I did not realise that you had altered your plans and apologise profusely if you sent a message to that effect; I don't appear to have received anything."

The musketeer officer seemed so contrite that Desmarais had to offer some sort of explanation. "You have no reason to apologise, Captain. I had notice from my estate that my presence was needed as soon as possible and, in my haste to begin the journey, I was the one who was remiss in not notifying you."

D'Artagnan accepted the explanation with a nod and the hint of a relieved smile. "I hope that it is nothing serious that draws you away from here so quickly but I am glad that we can rectify things, Baron." He turned to indicate the man behind him. "Allow me to introduce Musketeer Brujon; he will be leading the escort and relieving you of the prisoners."

Brujon snapped to attention respectfully but Desmarais barely acknowledged his existence. "Thank you, Captain, for your consideration. Now, I do not want to delay any longer. Goodbye."

With his brusque farewell, Desmarais pushed between the two musketeers to his waiting carriage.

"Charming gentleman," Brujon muttered so that only his Captain could hear him.

D'Artagnan pulled a sympathetic face. "You only have to put up with him for a short while. He seems to be very eager to get back home so you should be able to make good time and reach his estate in a couple of days. Overnight there; rest yourselves and the horses and set out early the following morning with the prisoners. We may even meet you as you head back as we are also intending upon making a visit to the good Baron."

"We?" Brujon was curious.

"Yes. Aramis, Porthos and Athos will be with me," d'Artagnan explained.

"Anything I should know about?"

D'Artagnan clapped a hand reassuringly on his shoulder. "Only that our visit is to be unannounced; he must not be forewarned."

"My lips are sealed – or will be," Brujon responded with a broad grin.

"Musketeer! I would like to leave today!" The terse reprimand came from within the depths of the carriage; Desmarais did not even deign to show his face at the window.

"Good luck," d'Artagnan murmured, relieved that he was not having to accompany the obnoxious nobleman.

"Thanks," Brujon responded with an audible sigh. He made sure his hat was firmly on his head and moved towards his mount, which stood patiently waiting, its reins held by another musketeer. "Why do I think we're going to need it?"

V

Aramis stood back and admired Constance's handiwork.

"Well?" she asked worriedly. She had, after all, begun to make significant changes to the clothing he had sent to her. It was apparent that he would never be able to wear them again if the offcuts scattered across the floor were anything to go by. It had been a hard decision for her, such was the beauty and value of the cloth, but for the doublets and breeches to sit well on Athos' slender frame, the sacrifice had had to be made. It was just as well the two men were of the same height or she would have had additional work.

"Splendid!" Aramis praised her. "He looks presentable as a member of my staff now."

"I am here," Athos reminded them.

"Indeed, you are, my friend. Once again, you scrub up well!" Aramis teased him. Behind his smile was the observation that Athos remained every inch the Comte: the way he held himself, the trimmed hair and beard, the disdainful look …

"May I remove this now?" Athos asked patiently; he had been standing there uncomplaining as Constance had taken her time measuring, cutting and pinning.

"Oh! Of course," and she moved forward to help as he eased off the last of the three doublets. "Be careful you don't catch yourself on the pins," she warned him.

Aramis held out a chair for her and poured her a drink as she settled herself down to the task of sewing the altered seams.

"I take it the four of you are eating here again tonight," she said, concentrating on the threading of her needle.

The two men looked at each other but it was the First Minister who answered. "If that is acceptable to you, dear Constance. We have much to discuss regarding our plans to follow Desmarais."

Her brow creased in a frown and the men were unsure as to whether she was displeased by her handiwork or annoyed at the prospect of another evening without the sole attention of her husband. Then she raised her head, her eyes twinkling as she gently scolded them. "It's just as well that I planned a meal for all of us then; the vegetables are done. I did them whilst I was waiting for Sleepyhead here to rouse himself. Goodness knows what poor Elodie is thinking though if Porthos abandons her yet again."

"I am sure she understands," Aramis hastened to placate her. "Besides, he is with her most of the day and," he flashed her his most disarmingly mischievous grin, "all night!"

She chuckled softly. "Will you be returning to the Queen then?"

Her question was made in total innocence so it was something of a surprise when his grin faded and his face darkened. He could not explain clearly to himself as to why - so he certainly could not find the words to satisfy the others - but he was irked by Anne's attitude. It continued to rankle with him that she had kept from him the identity of Janus. It was stranger still that he could not find it within himself to direct any of that same ire towards Athos. Perhaps it was because of all that his brother had suffered in recent weeks and perhaps it was because Athos could hardly have explained himself in a letter that may have been intercepted. That, Aramis had reasoned with himself, would have defeated the object!

No, it was more that Anne had kept such a secret from him, an important one that appertained to someone close to him. Athos had been wounded in this new line of duty and he, Aramis, had been completely oblivious to the fact as he assumed, incorrectly, that the former musketeer was living a safe, domesticated life far from danger, and that the greatest menace he faced was carelessly cutting himself with a sharp farming implement. Since Aramis had learned the truth, it had crossed his mind more than once that Athos could have been killed and he wondered how he would have felt at the news.

He had never shared with any of them the fear he had harboured when they went to fight the Spanish and he had entered the monastic house at Douai, the guilt that had eaten away at him as he wrangled with God on a daily basis as to where His path really led, nor the tears that often accompanied his nightly prayers as he beseeched his Maker to keep his brothers from harm. Those prayers had continued to be whispered on his knees when Porthos had returned to the front, but a chill had swept through him when he thought of the prayers of protection he had never uttered for Athos. That was not to say that Aramis had never prayed for his absent brother and his new life, but there had never been any urgency. Had there been that sense, had he prayed, perhaps things would have been quite different for Athos …

He mentally chastised himself for it was a futile argument. How could he have been more specific and all-encompassing in his spiritual requests? Events, as terrible as they were, had brought Athos back to them. Had all been well, Athos would have yet been a two-day ride from Paris, Sylvie and Raoul would still be alive and Aramis would be none the wiser as to Janus' real name.

His thoughts flitted again to Anne when she told him that Desmarais was leaving. What was it about her at the beginning? Relief? A suppressed jubilation? But then he said he had to tell d'Artagnan that the Baron was departing earlier than initially presumed. Her reaction to the news of the musketeer escort had been unexpected, almost to the point of being bizarre. It was inexplicable and he wanted to find out more but he was now in an awkward mood, especially when he remembered her instruction to return speedily after his visit to the garrison, an errand that she suggested should have been dealt with in writing.

He heard again her voice in his ear and thought about her tone. Was it couched as a command from a monarch to her advisor, or was it an appeal from a woman to her lover, reluctant to have him gone from her side any longer than was necessary?

Aramis was becoming increasingly peevish by the second. He loved her without question and he enjoyed his role as First Minister, but life within the palace was very habitual, cloying like ….. he searched for a comparison. The realisation hit him – it was like life in the monastery at Douai. He had struggled there with its routine, its strictures and the slow strangling of his spirit. He loved God and wanted to serve Him in all that he did but it had taken violence, brutal murder and the subsequently unexpected arrival of his three brothers to convince him that he had always known the way he could do his duty before the Almighty, and it did not demand him turning his back on the world. The palace was a little like a monastery and, as he understood at last, he felt cloistered, trapped for he was, and always would be, a man of action.

His brothers and he were reunited at last. There was a problem to be resolved, a serious one; it personally affected Athos on one level and, on another level, threatened the safety of France – and thereby Anne and Louis. He had to do something, he was determined to be involved and he was not going to do it from behind the security of the palace walls, whether the Queen liked it or not. He sensed that the most serious disagreement between them yet was looming on the horizon but all he felt was a sense of exhilaration.

He was not in a hurry to return to the Louvres.

"How are you today?" he asked Athos lightly.

"I am fine, thank you," came the familiar reply. He had not expected to hear anything different.

"Good, good!" Aramis was almost distracted. "But how are you _really?"_

Athos knew there was something leading about the question but he could not think what, so he looked to Constance who merely shrugged. He hesitated, hoping that she would not be offended by his apparent lack of appreciation at her hospitality.

"I am well but I would test my strength. I am … a little bored by the enforced indolence."

"Wonderful! I was hoping you were going to say something of the sort. We will address that immediately. What say you to a little exercise with swords?"

"Is that wise?" Constance asked, suddenly alarmed.

"I will be gentle with him," Aramis answered blithely, ignoring the disbelieving huff from the other man.

"But I thought we were keeping him hidden, that only a few people should know that he is here?"

Aramis studied Athos. "You said you thought Desmarais was hunting you but you do not know that for certain, and that search could well be concentrated in the area on and near his estate. You have no hard evidence that he was seeking you in Paris. Anyway, he is no longer here. Come, my friend, fetch that fancy sword of yours and let us do a little sparring. I am unarmed at present but no doubt that can be solved from the armoury."

VI

From his vantage point across the road, Benoit witnessed an amazing spectacle through the archway and within the garrison. The First Minister and his friend emerged from a building in their shirtsleeves and padded body protection in the musketeer pale blue. The yard cleared of the few men in training as they stood back and surrendered the space to the two men. Had he been a little closer, he might have heard the whispered explanations to recruits from a couple of senior soldiers who recognised the stranger as their former Captain and famed swordsman. Even Constance brought her sewing out into the fresh air and waited as a cadet brushed the dirt from a bench so that she might sit and not spoil her skirt.

Anticipation ran high and more men, hearing of the impromptu encounter, arrived to watch the sparring display of the two old friends, for they all knew the stories and achievements of the former musketeers.

They circled each other, armed with rapier and main gauche, smiles on their faces as they remembered times past when they had done just what they were doing now. Athos was momentarily convinced that, had he glanced upwards to the balcony, he would have seen Tréville in his usual pose. Hands wide apart on the railing, arms ramrod straight as he leaned to look at what the men were doing below, sometimes shouting a correction but, more often than not, quietly watching and feeling a deep sense of pride and satisfaction as he noted their skills.

Smiles were replaced by concentration as Athos and Aramis warmed up, moved slowly through recognisable patterns of thrust and parry. Shouts of encouragement and unnecessary words of advice were about even as the two began to move in earnest. Soldiers to the last, neither had forgotten any of their training, although Aramis had to admit that life at the palace had slowed him a little and he immediately resolved to exercise more regularly. It was his recent illness more than time that affected Athos initially but as the bout went on, both experienced a metamorphosis into the musketeers they once were. Everything Aramis attempted, Athos countered with an ease and grace that had never left him. Aramis briefly reflected on the fact that his friend had had more than one occasion to have recourse to his fighting skills in the past three years. As Athos relaxed, so his moves became more precise, flowing from one to the other with little effort, but there was no denying the skill involved.

The onlookers held their breath in awe and silently understood that they were privileged in watching a master at work; even Constance had abandoned her sewing as she did not want to miss a moment. The men would have given anything for the chance to spar with the man who had once led the regiment, to learn from him and try to emulate him. As the bout drew to a close and there was a burst of spontaneous applause and cheering, they were all united in one thing. They would never want to meet him on a battlefield!

Benoit's heart sank. He had heard enough of the demon swordsman to determine that he would never want to fight him with such a weapon, but now he had seen the man's skill first hand and he had not even been really trying!

How on earth was he, Benoit, to get close enough to the man to kill him?


	20. Chapter 20

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **A high profile Aramis in this chapter! Tension is running high at the palace too...**_

 _ **A longer chapter this time for those who have been badgering me (gently, I might add!) for a longer read. I had a hugely successful writing session on Saturday (well, I thought so and am metaphorically biting my nails in the hope that you all agree; I'm sure you'll let me know) with this being the result and half of chapter 21 - not bad for 8 hours' work!**_

 _ **Things are definitely escalating now. Thank you for all the feedback so far and I wait with bated breath for your thoughts on this. Apologies if any typos have sneaked through; I did check more than once but these things happen.**_

CHAPTER 20

I

As d'Artagnan rode back through the archway into the garrison yard, he was met by a throng of men mingling, laughing, clapping and cheering and he wondered what was going on. He slid from the saddle, handed the reins to the waiting stable boy and pulled off his gloves as the men before him, suddenly alerted to his presence, parted to leave him a path to their midst and the focus of their attention.

Sweating profusely, an arm around each other's shoulders as they bent, struggling to regulate their breathing, Aramis laughed and Athos managed as broad a smile as one could possibly expect from him at any given time. A cadet edged his way through the crowd with his elbows and handed a pewter mug of water to each of the combatants, which they downed without hesitation before even attempting to speak.

"I am unfit," Aramis declared, gesticulating towards d'Artagnan with the hand that held the cup, his other arm still around Athos.

d'Artagnan stood, legs apart, hands on hips and grinning broadly as he realised how they had spent their time. He was immensely relieved at the change it had wrought in Athos for he seemed, for the first time since he had returned, to be completely relaxed. It was as if the constant memories of his bereavement had left him, if only for a short while, and the Captain was happy to see that respite.

"That's down to all that fancy food you eat at the palace," he quipped. "It's time you started to exercise more regularly."

"I am already resolved to that, my friend," Aramis wheezed. "I shall insist that Edouard make a point of adding it to my diary; I shall come and spar with the cadets at least twice a week." He grew serious. "That's if the cadets will have me, of course."

At that comment, there was a roar of approval from the men gathered.

"I will hold you to that," d'Artagnan laughed, his eyes roving over the pair of them. "Do I need to ask who won?"

"Hardly," came the clipped response from Athos. Those who did not know him better might have thought he was offended by the question, but both Aramis and d'Artagnan heard the careful note of gentle sarcasm in his tone. "I may have let him think he had the upper hand at the start but then I taught him who was really in charge. There was never any doubt as to the outcome; he hasn't changed. All bluster and wrong feet!"

Aramis feigned his horror and laid a hand to his heart. "I am cut to the quick!" he objected.

"You would have been cut somewhere else more than once had I not had my wits about me," Athos muttered and d'Artagnan laughed aloud.

To the onlookers, it was the light-hearted banter of men who had known each other for years, who had forged the unbreakable bond of brotherhood and comradeship, protected and defended each other, and seen more in their years as musketeers than many of the men gathered would witness in a lifetime. It was a joy and, as Constance watched and listened, her eyes welled up.

Quietly, she scolded herself and wiped at her face with the doublet she held, and then scolded herself some more for her momentary weakness and dampening of the cloth. She fervently wished that the baby would not be late; this tendency to extreme emotional responses was very tiresome and she wanted nothing more than to return to her usual feisty state.

Had she spoken at that point to Aramis and d'Artagnan, she would have discovered that they were feeling exactly the same. The bout had taken Athos out of himself, if only for a short while, and they saw once more the brother of years ago, before the war with Spain had weighted him with an awful authority and responsibility, long before the names of Grimaud and Feron had taken their toll, and before the months when he bore the secret of Aramis' indiscretion with the Queen.

Even as they silently gave thanks for this brief restoration, they saw the instant when the memory of what he had lost flooded back; he straightened, the smile flickered and died, and the implacable mask descended upon his face once more.

"If you gentlemen don't mind, I will retire and rest a while. The exertion has taken a little more out of me than I would like," he said.

He had turned and started to walk away back to his room even as d'Artagnan answered. "Of course. Take all the time you need. I will call you to enable you to be ready for dinner."

The throng was drifting away and Constance joined the two of them as they watched Athos' retreating back.

"It didn't last long," d'Artagnan noted sadly.

"What didn't?" she wondered, not having been in a position to hear their conversation.

"The break from his pain."

"It is never far from him," Aramis observed, his own heart aching for his brother's suffering. "It is going to take a very long time for him to come back from this, if at all."

"Many a good man would have buckled under the events that have happened to him but he is strong,"d'Artagnan affirmed confidently.

"Is he?" Aramis questioned. "We have long assumed he is when we remember what transpired with Thomas, his estate, his wife and all the misery she foisted upon him over the years. Then there is the war experience, the trouble in Paris, Tréville and then Grimaud. Now there is the loss of Sylvie and Raoul to contend with. Every man has his breaking point, d'Artagnan. I just hope this isn't it for him."

"I think you are doing him a disservice," d'Artagnan insisted, refusing to admit that the same thought had occurred to him.

"I hope you are right," Aramis conceded, "but in the meantime, we just have to be patient and be there for him." He sighed and sought to lighten the mood once more. "I had better return to the palace and get cleaned up or your wonderful wife will not give me leave to grace her table this evening."

"Oh, get away with you," she laughed as he planted a kiss on her cheek in an extravagant gesture.

They said their goodbyes and parted company, Aramis swinging easily up into the saddle of his horse when it was brought out for him. The d'Artagnans watched him go, waving fondly before heading back into their quarters. The empty yard fell strangely silent, the men having dispersed either to engage in other training activities, return to their rooms or head out into the Paris streets for entertainment.

As the bout had progressed, no-one realised that the two guards at the garrison entrance had become distracted by the events in the yard and moved a little from their posts so that they also might not miss any of the display of swordsmanship. Benoit, ever the opportunist, had slunk through the opening and found an unlocked door to a storeroom, secreting himself behind a stack of boxed provisions.

He had no plan of what he was going to do, no idea where Athos had gone, nor how he was to make good his own escape from the garrison, whether he fulfilled his task or not. All that concerned him was that he had successfully gained access to the musketeer home and that he was one step closer to achieving his aim.

II

Aramis was striding along the palace corridor towards his apartment when he was intercepted by Edouard. Usually unflappable, the dour man was red-faced and decidedly flustered.

"There you are at last, Minister. The Queen has repeatedly been asking for you."

Aramis frowned. "Reassure her that I shall attend upon Her Majesty as soon as I have freshened up and changed," and he made to move past the distracted man.

"No, Minister." Edouard uncharacteristically barred his way. "Her Majesty is most insistent. You are to go to her immediately upon your return."

Aramis gave a big sigh and made a show of sniffing at his left armpit before grimacing at the odour, the unpleasant reminder of his afternoon's activities. "If that's what she wants, then be it upon her own head," he muttered to himself as he turned on his heels and went off in the opposite direction. "Or in her own nose," he corrected so that no-one else might hear.

Edouard watched him go, wringing his hands in agitation for he felt certain that the mood of the pair of them did not bode well.

Two stony-faced footmen moved in synchronised haste to open the double doors to admit him into the Queen's presence. Obviously, they had had their orders regarding him for there was no need for polite knocking first. They were trained ostensibly to see nothing and hear nothing, but Aramis could not help but wonder what they gossiped about when their duty was done. It could be anything and everything if he and his brothers were a representative example from their days of being on guard. They had often discussed amongst themselves what they had heard and witnessed at the palace but were discreet enough never to do so in a public place.

Anne was pacing the floor, her annoyance rolling off her in waves as her ladies-in-waiting sat in various places about the room, supposedly absorbed in their embroidery, but their eyes darted anxiously from the work abandoned in their laps to the Queen and back again. One of the women - Aramis recognised her as the Comtesse de Fougère – was reading aloud from a volume of poetry but as soon as she saw him, she stopped what she was doing, her sudden silence warning the Queen of the newcomer's arrival.

Was Aramis imagining things or did the Comtesse gaze at him in pity?

Anne turned abruptly to face him, her colour heightened in her cheeks and her eyes ice cold in anger.

"Where have you been all this time?" she demanded. "You were coming straight back after seeing Captain d'Artagnan."

He matched her clipped tone with his own curt response. "I never said that. I informed Your Majesty that I was going to talk with d'Artagnan and then I wanted to see how Athos was faring."

"And that has taken all this time? How is it that you look so … dishevelled?" She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the strong body odour that emanated from him.

"I did not realise that I was on a fixed schedule and I apologise for my appearance. I had planned to freshen up but my secretary informed me that you wanted to see me immediately." He softened his approach as he tried to appease her.

"That 'immediate' was some time ago. How long does it take to ask after a man's health?" She was not to be mollified.

"I was not about to walk in, ask him one question and walk out again," he insisted. "Besides, we exercised together in the yard; we had a bout with swords."

"He is recovered enough to practice fighting then?" The temperature in the room dropped further with her tone.

"Athos is much improved but tires easily. When I left, he was resting. I hope to see him up and about again later." Aramis' response was as frosty as hers and he was aware that the women were studying them intently, heads turning from one to the other as though they were spectators at a ball game.

"You are spending so much time at the garrison these days, I wonder that you do not take up residence there again."

There was a sharp intake of breath from the ladies-in-waiting that was ignored.

"Whilst my brother is here, I would spend time with him, especially in light of what he has been through. I have known him for fifteen years," Aramis' voice was becoming more strident as he fought to control his temper at what he saw as her perverse attitude.

"And for seven of those, you have not seen each other!" she snapped, referring to the three years since Athos left Paris and the four that Aramis was ensconced in the monastery at Douai.

"There were justifiable reasons," he reminded her, unable to go into detail with an audience. "Besides, he has been ill and I have been caring for him."

"Do we not have physicians enough for that? If it was a question of money, a solution could have been found."

"Money does not come into it! It was something that I could do for him after all this time and I wanted to see for myself that he was recovering. In the early stages, we had no idea what had transpired with Sylvie and Raoul."

"Then Captain d'Artagnan and General Porthos were quite capable of having the responsibility for his care. It did not need to fall to you."

"It did not _fall_ to me! We all played our part in looking after him; it's what we have always done," he said pointedly.

"Yes, when you _were_ musketeers, but that no longer applies to three of you. Have you forgotten that you are First Minister of France and that you have duties here?"

Aramis could hear his heart thundering in his chest and wondered that the other women in the room did not hear it too. His forced reply came from between gritted teeth. "How could I forget? Your Majesty takes great pains in reminding me frequently. I wish to reassure you that none of my work has been neglected in recent days and all will be in order whilst I am away. Edouard knows exactly what …."

"Away?" Anne interrupted.

"Indeed," Aramis continued. "I fully intend to go through with the proposed visit north of here in the company of Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos." Even in his open defiance, he had the presence of mind not to say too much in front of the Queen's ladies.

Anne stood still as a statue, her eyes fixed upon his and he could see her turmoil in their depths.

"Leave us," she instructed curtly and, as one, the ladies arose, dipped in a deferential curtsey and hastily retreated from the room, clutching their sewing. They were not without regret, for they sensed that a major disagreement was about to unfold between the pair of them and they would have loved to bear witness to it.

Anne waited until she heard the door close behind her on the last of them and then she spoke, the tremor of emotion clear in her voice. "You will not go."

He weighed up what she had said and hesitated before answering, his voice low as he struggled to maintain his own composure. "Is that an order from the Queen to her First Minister or a request from a woman to the man she loves?"

Still neither of them moved.

She was close to tears of frustration. "I would not have you go for I do not know what I would do if you were to be hurt … or worse." Her voice died away on a whisper and, his anger melting in an instant, he crossed rapidly to her and seized both of her hands in his. They stood together in the middle of the ornately decorated room.

"Anne, I am a trained soldier and I can never forget that." He chuckled and rolled his eyes. "This afternoon's impromptu session may have proven that I am not as fit as I once was but that can easily be remedied, and I intend to do just that." He raised her hands to his lips and planted a gentle kiss on each before gazing intently at her. "I promise you that my days of being foolish and reckless are long gone. I have too much to lose with you and Louis to take any unnecessary risks and have seen what such a loss has done to Athos. I would never want to put you through that or experience anything like it for myself."

"Then why do you want to go?" she persisted.

He sought for the right words that might help her to understand. "A soldier's life is a strange one, especially for a musketeer. On gaining our commissions, we swear an oath of loyalty to King and country and not just in times of war. In our day-to-day duty of guarding you, we vow to protect Your Majesties. It is not just ceremonial; we would lay down our lives in an instant if it spares the shedding of royal blood. We know that any day could be our last and we live for the moment. A musketeer works hard and plays hard because tomorrow he could be dead." He paused for breath and to order his thoughts.

"You _were_ a musketeer, Aramis. Do you realise you have said all that in the present tense?"

He lifted one of her hands and laid it flat against his chest. "Then that proves what I am trying to say. Once a musketeer, always a musketeer and here, in my heart, I still think of myself as one. If an assassin were to burst through that door right now, I would be ready to die for you as my Queen …..and as the woman I love. It follows, therefore, that men who serve together, live together and fight shoulder to shoulder should forge a comradeship and brotherhood that cannot be broken, even in death. What d'Artagnan, Porthos, Athos and I had and shared – what we _have –_ is so precious, so special, it transcends other brotherhoods and will last for ever.

"To Tréville, we were his _Inseparables._ The years and distance might try to separate us but will always fail; we have a sense for each other. Please don't think me ungrateful. I love being here at the palace so that I can be with you and see you every day, and I can watch Louis grow into the fine King that I know he will become, but we have to be honest with each other and ourselves. I can never stand up in a gathering and say. 'This is my son; I love him as a father and I am so very proud of him.' Likewise, you and I have a somewhat unorthodox relationship. When we are not alone, I have to remember how to address you, how I should look at you; I can never touch you and it hurts.

"And it hurts just as much being apart from my brothers. I have missed them so much, no matter how we annoyed each other and argued. Knowing that they were in danger in the war with Spain whilst I was in Douai was hard to endure, as was being apart from you and Louis. We have lived, fought, eaten, drunk, laughed and cried together and I have yearned for that. It has been good to spend time regularly with d'Artagnan, but to have Porthos and Athos here as well is a blessing that I did not think would happen again. It has only served to remind and reinforce what these men mean to me.

"We share but a little part of Athos' pain but we are there for him as we have always been, for him and for each other. 'All for one and one for all'. It is the code by which we live and die and it will never change. Athos' trials are because of Desmarais. We want to ride together once more, not just because it reminds us of times past and the heady days of when we were a close unit, but because Athos has need of us.'

Anne waited, quietly listening to his emotive speech and a tear began to track its way down her cheek. He gently wiped it away with his forefinger.

When he spoke again, it was in a desperate whisper. "So, I ask you, Anne, please understand and let me go. I need to be with my brothers one more time; we have to do this for Athos. For as long as I have known him, he has been a man beset by woes, but I would be hard pressed to think of a time when he was as visibly broken as he is now and I fear for him. I am prepared to do _anything_ for him."

He fell silent, awaiting her approbation.

"You do not need to go," she said softly.

Aramis sighed, unable to conceal his disappointment. "Did you not hear what I said?"

"I heard but you do not need to go, none of you do." Anne was reluctant to tell him anymore but had to say something, anything, that might prevent them from riding off after Desmarais.

He was puzzled. "What do you mean? Why not?"

"The matter is in hand," she said cryptically. "None of you need trouble yourselves."

There was no deterring him. "What have you done, Anne?"

She detected a note of urgency mingled with an emergent anger in his tone but she was not cowed. She was the Queen and Regent, and wanted him to know that she was quite capable of making decisions for herself.

"Someone has been deployed to take care of things," she stated calmly.

"To take care of Desmarais! That's what you really mean, don't you?"

She nodded.

Aramis was plainly furious. "We do not have the proof that he is a traitor! That's the whole point of us going to his estate. You can't go around giving the order for people to be killed without the proof or just because you don't like them. What happened to bringing the person to justice?"

He had never had occasion to be angry with her before and it surprised her so that she almost crumbled in the face of his temper, but then she pulled her hands free, took a step back and countered with her own tirade. "You dare to raise your voice to your Queen?"

Before, he had spoken to her as the woman he adored but she now elected to remind him of their different status, to erect a barrier between them. She had never used that ploy before. Battle lines were drawn.

"If that's how you want it then yes, Your Majesty. I regret that I am raising my voice but it is to express in no uncertain terms the concern and the anger I am feeling right now. I am your First Minister but this is the second time recently you have withheld valuable information from me. Do you not trust me? Do you not think me up to the task? If that is the case, then I will resign with immediate effect. After all," his words dripped with sarcasm, "I can always return to being a lowly soldier. I have just stupidly bared all to the woman I care about …. No, sorry. Let me rephrase that. I have just admitted to the woman who is my Queen that once a soldier, always a soldier at heart. Is that what you want?"

At the ferociousness of his onslaught, her eyes filled with tears but she was on the bitter defensive. "Of course not, but …."

"How do you expect me to advise you, to support you when you keep things from me and make decisions on your own that could have catastrophic results? How on earth did you go about finding an assassin? Advertise? Do you realise whoever he is might easily turn on you in the future and reveal what you have had him do? He could bring you down, destroy you on a whim to whoever's willing to pay the most! Finding someone to do this kind of work in haste is asking for trouble. Did he come recommended to you? By whom? Is there someone else who knows? Can they be trusted too? Just how many other people _are_ involved? Did you not stop to think of that?"

"Naturally I thought of it," Anne countered, angry that he should think of her as incompetent and drowning in his deluge of questions. "It was not done in haste. I know her work and she has - "

She stopped. The moment the words were out of her mouth, she knew that she had said too much and, from the way his features darkened, she knew that he had heard her mistake and latched onto her revelation.

"She? What 'she'? You have employed a female assassin? How do you know of her work?" He was beside himself with anger and she had never seen this in him before.

Anne took a deep breath. "Because she worked for Cardinal Richelieu, for Rochefort and…" Here she hesitated, not knowing whether he knew of the next person. "Tréville."

Realisation dawned and it was as if she had slapped him forcibly across the face so that he staggered back a few paces. Going after him, she reached for him but he shook off her hands.

"Her? You've employed _her_?" He stared at her in crazed disbelief. "You have employed Milady de Winter?"

Alarmed at his reaction, she raised her chin in a semblance of defiance and challenged him. "So what if I have? I can see past the part where she was my late husband's mistress. She is highly skilled in any number of undesirable roles, including that of assassin, so why not use her? Better to have her in my employment that anyone else's. Pay her well and she can be relied upon. She saved you, didn't she?"

He assumed Milady had informed her of that involvement but it was irrelevant at this moment.

"Anne," he groaned, distractedly running both hands through his hair. "What have you done? You have no idea who she is, do you?"

The Queen was discomforted by the abrupt change that swept over him. One minute he was enraged and the next he looked as though the very life and energy had been sucked from him. When he had spoken, he sounded in pain, the agony reflected in his face. She shook her head, frightened by what he might be on the verge of telling her. Had she underestimated the dangerous woman?

Aramis was torn. He knew the story was not his for the telling, that it might be construed as an act of betrayal, but Anne had to understand the seriousness of her actions and what might follow. That was his justification to himself and he would have to live with it.

"Milady de Winter is Athos' wife!"


	21. Chapter 21

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Thank you so much for the comments on chapter 20. What a tangled web is being woven!**_

 _ **It also raised a key question. Did Anne know about Milady and Athos being married? My take on it is this.**_

 _ **I think I have kept BBC canon in that nowhere is their marriage referred to by anyone else after season 1. His three brothers and Tr**_ _ **é**_ _ **ville obviously know and, by default and probably events, Constance.**_

 _ **In Season 1, Richelieu knew as he made reference to it, having investigated her. He was initially curious as to why she chose Athos to discredit in episode 1 and all she said was that she had her reasons. The Cardinal might have documented it for others to find on his death but that was never suggested. If so, Rochefort would have found it and definitely used it against Athos. They obviously knew (of) each other in S2E1. He investigates Milady but only discovers her criminal past and not her marriage, and uses that to get her to work for him (S2E3?)**_

 _ **Louis was not likely to know. I doubt he would have been happy to take a mistress who was a musketeer's 'cast off!' Therefore, Ann is unlikely to know.**_

 _ **What about S1E10? I re-watched the opening scene. It is dark and there are plenty of Paris citizens on the street – the act is deliberately done in public. Would the people have known him as a musketeer? He is in his leather breeches but minus doublet and pauldron or anything that marks him out as a soldier. Perhaps the people would have realised he was a musketeer by the group rushing and addressing him by name but he has obviously had one too many! Would the street gossip have filtered through to the palace? I doubt it.**_

 _ **When Porthos rushes into the garrison, he says that Athos has taken a woman hostage. There are other musketeers there and no doubt they are curious. Aramis and d'Artagnan run and are the closest when they confront Athos in the street. Tr**_ _ **éville arrives and holds back. Could that be to prevent any musketeers, who might have followed, from going past him and getting involved in and thereby fouling what was their set-up 'plan'? Interestingly, when Athos lists Milady's misdemeanours, TB actually drops his voice when he finally declares she is his wife so only Aramis and d'Artagnan potentially hear the admission – and her, of course. Perhaps there is a musketeer code of silence anyway. After all, they had to be sworn to secrecy when they play-acted Athos' funeral. They did not look as if they were genuinely mourning, even if dear Porthos did manage to get caught up in the moment and shed a tear! If any of them saw her on a darkened street that night, would they later recognise her many months later as the King's mistress?**_

 _ **Likewise, when d'Artagnan challenged Athos in the street, he did refer to Athos' wife before he 'shot him dead' but who would have known her – or even cared. They were too caught up in the spectacle.**_

 _ **That's my reasoning for my particular plot and if it is a gaping loophole, then I profusely apologise to you, the readers. I had good instructors for loopholes (lol!) Namely the writers themselves!**_

CHAPTER 21

Anne could not believe what she had just heard and, her legs suddenly unable to hold her up, she allowed Aramis to guide her as she sank down onto the nearest seat. "His wife? But how? When?"

"Some sixteen years ago. Before he became a musketeer," Aramis explained as he pulled up a hard-backed chair and sat beside her.

"But he did not bring her to Paris with him. Why was she not with him?" Anne was fascinated and her mind was already filling with a plethora of questions.

"Because for five years, he believed that she was dead on his orders."

Anne's brow furrowed. "I do not understand. On whose authority did he give such an order and why?"

"He had the authority. He was the Comte de la Fère, she his Comtesse and she murdered his younger brother; she stabbed him to death."

Aramis could tell from her expression that the Queen was searching her mind for something and it was some time before she spoke again. "La Fère? I remember Louis saying something about the family. Theirs was an old name going back generations, I believe. I have a vague recollection of an austere-looking man in late middle-age being presented to me at court many years ago; it must have been shortly after Louis and I were married. I was very young and most of the noblemen seemed ancient." She gave a slight smile. "That must have been Athos' father. He did not come often to court, preferring not to leave his estate. Now, where was it?"

"Pinon," Aramis reminded her.

"Pinon, that's it. Then the news came that he had died and his eldest son had inherited. To think that was Athos and I never knew. I possibly met him for he would surely have come to Paris to see Louis on inheriting his father's title." Anne was finding the notion strange that she might have encountered Athos in the days before he became a musketeer. On reflection, it was not so hard to accept that he was titled – his bearing, mannerisms and accent all suggested a noble birth and it was common for sons of the nobility to gain their commission in the musketeer regiment.

"That I cannot say," Aramis went on, "but he met and swiftly married Milady, another Anne."

"I never asked her name," the Queen breathed. "It was enough to know her as Milady de Winter."

"I don't suppose she was likely to become your close friend," Aramis observed drily.

"No," and she gave a light laugh. "I had no intention of that. So, what happened next."

Aramis shrugged. "For all the time I have known Athos, there is still much about him of which I am unaware. He, Porthos and I were put together by Tréville and were a close working unit as well as friends, but it was five years before we knew anything about her, and even then he admitted it first to d'Artagnan. He only did that because she had reappeared like a ghost and tried to murder him. It seems she bribed her executioner to let her escape. Does she still wear a broad band of ribbon or jewellery around her neck?"

Anne nodded.

"That is because she carries the mark of the hangman's noose on her skin. Athos believed her dead. He had not stayed to see her die; he couldn't. He was besotted with her and she had lied to him and then killed Thomas, his brother. It nearly destroyed him. We knew he was troubled by some dark event in his life because of the way he drank himself into oblivion and categorically refused to speak of his past, but Porthos and I gleaned snippets on occasions. He had mentioned a woman and said that she had died but we did not know she was his wife and sentenced by him to die for her crime. Porthos and I always suspected that Tréville knew more about his past than we did; that was why he persevered with him as a musketeer and shaped him."

"I long sensed that there was a strong connection between the two of them," Anne said softly.

"Tréville was like a father figure to all of us but with Athos, it was more. His death, I am convinced, was a major contributing factor to Athos' resigning his captaincy and leaving." Aramis' thoughts turned to the beautiful time piece that he kept safely in his rooms. He was waiting for the most appropriate time to give it back to its last owner but felt that Athos was not ready for it just yet. Perhaps when all this mayhem was laid to rest.

"Do you recall when Louis sentenced Athos to death for murder and robbery and it was a race against time for us to clear his name?" Aramis continued. Anne did. "Well that was down to Milady. She wanted revenge and almost fed him to Richelieu in her haste. That was when she tried to kill him after that; she set fire to his chateau in Pinon and left him to burn in it. D'Artagnan rescued him on that occasion."

A dreadful thought occurred to the Queen. "Is she still trying to kill him?"

Aramis gave a bitter laugh. "No. He spared her life after she threatened to kill Constance."

"I never knew that!" Anne was horrified.

"We didn't tell a lot of people – only Tréville knew the truth. She made up some story to explain her bruises to Bonacieux for he was still alive at the time. Anyway, Athos banished her from Paris and warned her that if he ever saw her again, he would take it upon himself to kill her."

"But she came back and he did not do it,"Anne remonstrated.

"Because the King, your husband, made her his mistress. Athos could not act upon his threat when she was receiving royal attention and protection."

Anne gasped. "As much as I found it hard, it must have been equally difficult for him, seeing her being so brazen with Louis."

Aramis nodded. "It was tearing him apart along with the guilt at discovering that he still loved her, despite what she was. He could not reconcile that passion with the memory of what she had done, especially when she started to claim that she had acted out of self-defence, that Thomas had tried to force himself upon her. Athos was in utter turmoil; he did not know if he had misjudged his brother for all those years and done her a grievous wrong by not believing her. Supposing she had been innocent all along? To have hurt her as he had done was eating away at him.

"After that, he always maintained that he made her into what she became, that he is the one responsible. I've thought long and hard about it; I have no proof, you understand, but I would not trust her. I think she has lied to him all over again about Thomas. She wanted him back, you know, and I have a horrible feeling that he was weakening, but then war broke out and he did not see her for over four years. By that time, he had met Sylvie and the rest, you might say, is history, but even that did not run smoothly for him. He was so damaged by Milady that he found it very difficult to allow himself to love again. Sylvie was a very special woman; with her patience, she taught him how to find some semblance of that happiness once more."

Anne wiped at a tear. "The poor man. Now he has lost her too and his son. No-one should be expected to endure such pain and sadness. At least I see now why they did not marry." She reached for Aramis' hand and clung on to it tightly. "I often thought it strange, for there was no obvious reason as to why they were subjected to a relationship like ours, but it was all because he was not free to do so."

"When Milady came back to Paris from England, she was surprised to discover that Athos had moved on. She made a point of finding out about Sylvie, of engineering a means of meeting her. That was when she must have realised she had finally lost Athos for good and who knows how she felt about that? Suppose she has let her jealousy fester for three years?"

The Queen did not follow his reasoning. "We will probably never know."

"I don't agree." He reached for her hand and spoke softly, not wanting her to believe that he was blaming her for anything, but eager for her to understand how her actions had made worse an already untenable situation. "Think on what you have done, what you have unleashed with your order. You have given her licence to kill Desmarais. What do you think will happen when she finds out – and she will find out – that you want her to kill a man for suspected treachery and he just happens to be the one who gave the instruction to his men to use any force necessary to quash an uprising in a village, an act that resulted in the killing of the woman her husband loved and the son she bore him."

Anne could find no answer but did not dare break eye contact with Aramis.

"It can go one of two ways as I see it. Firstly, she could rejoice at that news and consequently renege on that agreement with you, preferring to throw in her lot with the man behind the disposal of a woman she hated. That an innocent child died as well is immaterial. Secondly, she could go through with the assassination but how does that give Athos any sense of justice, of closure for Sylvie and Raoul? How will he feel when he discovers that his murderous wife is responsible for denying him any sense of retribution?"

She was still lost for words, choked by an overwhelming sadness and pity for Athos, and a burgeoning guilt at what she had done.

"Anne," he pleaded, "you have to send to her, tell her to stop. You can still pay her but she must not be the one to deal with Desmarais. I have yet to convince Athos to bring the Baron alive back to Paris to let justice be meted out, but he deserves to be at the forefront of that, to have some control over what is happening."

The Queen did not have to think twice. "I will send to her immediately. Whilst I write, please find Guillaume for me; he knows where she can be found."

II

Benoit's luck was holding. Either that, he considered, or the majority of the soldiers within the garrison were not blessed with independent thought, reliant instead upon the orders they received from those in authority.

He had been hiding away in the storeroom for nearly two hours in a cramped corner behind the boxes as he thought about what he might do next. Most ideas that came to mind were swiftly dismissed on account of being wishful thinking or, worse still, tantamount to guaranteeing immediate capture and torture. He automatically assumed that the musketeer recourse to punishment and displays of their authority must depend upon the dispensation of varying degrees of pain – nay, agony. Groaning aloud, he shifted position to ease the joints that had stiffened through his inactivity.

"I'm in enough pain here as it is," he grunted as he vigorously attempted to rub life back into his complaining calf muscles.

He would wait until nightfall and then venture back out into the yard to resume his search for Athos. However, he had no more notion of what he would do to the man when he found him than when he had first sneaked into the garrison. The only thing he had determined was that he was not going to engage in any sword fight, for the man truly was a demon in human form when it came to his skill with a sword. Benoit had to give him a grudging respect for that, but it still did not solve the problem of how to kill his target.

Shooting him from any range was completely out of the question. Only a fool would think to discharge a weapon unexpectedly when surrounded by soldiers. For reassurance, he fingered the hilt of the dagger secured on the belt at his waist. If he found the right room, he could stab him as he slept, but that did not solve the problem of how he was going to find him. He doubted that any of the doors would helpfully bear the name of the musketeer there and it was hardly appropriate to work his way through the buildings, opening doors as he went, in the hope that all the rooms' occupants were heavy sleepers.

It would be his misfortune if this Athos were to be a light sleeper and instantly rouse at the slightest noise. Imagination ran riot. He, Benoit, might just have opened the door which was in desperate need of an oiling so the resultant screech alerted the man within, meaning that he would come face to face with Athos, sitting upright in bed and holding a loaded musket as the only welcome. There would be no awkward questions about a shot being fired to fell an intruder.

He was not dressed like a musketeer. Perhaps that was the answer. Find a soldier of similar height, overcome him, strip him and leave him tied up. That was bound to be easy! The place must be full of soldiers aimlessly wandering about and waiting to be struck on the head, relieved of their clothing and bound. There was another problem – he didn't have any rope. Instinctively he peered around the edge of the boxes to see if a coil of rope was helpfully lying around solely for his use. Even if he did procure a uniform, he remained uneasy about donning it and walking out into the garrison. The musketeers probably knew each other on sight anyway.

"Damn Desmarais and his orders," Benoit grumbled to himself. His employer had no idea of the difficulties of carrying out this particular order. Instead, the Baron had headed off to the sanctuary of his estate, leaving him to take all the risks. Where was the fairness in that? It would not have been so bad if he had someone with whom he could work. One other person would greatly improve his chances of success in killing his target. He was severely outnumbered and his situation preposterous. It would be better if he found some means of leaving the garrison as soon as possible, abandon this idea – not that he really had one – and try again another day, somewhere else. Athos had to leave the protective confines of the garrison at some point and he would be waiting.

What Benoit would not admit to himself was that he was scared. Yes, he had been Desmarais' 'right-hand' man for some time but he had earned that position through loyalty and hard work, sometimes following some very unsavoury orders but he had never had to carry them out alone. When he had been required to 'teach someone a lesson,' they had been ordinary people who were unlikely to put up much resistance. They were not dangerous and highly skilled ex-soldiers safely ensconced within the midst of a hundred or more trained and serving soldiers. This was madness. His knowledge of any sort of fighting and use of firearms had been learned through trial and error as he worked; he was not experienced to cope with this … this Athos. As far as Benoit was concerned, he had been sent on a suicide mission and he was not paid enough for that.

Then he tried to be more positive. If he were successful in disposing of the former officer, perhaps it would give him more leverage in demanding more money from Desmarais. After all, the Baron was being amply rewarded for his work with the Spanish so perhaps it was time for Benoit to benefit from that arrangement too.

His musings were interrupted as the door to the storeroom was thrown open and he shrank back into his hiding place, holding his breath. He had caught sight of a man and boy.

"There, Alain, you pick up that box of vegetables while I take these two," the man ordered. He must have been the regiment's cook and the boy his assistant. "We'll get back to the kitchen and you can wash and prepare them whilst I carry on with the meat."

"Yes, sir," came the lad's eager reply.

Benoit's eyes widened in fear at the prospect of imminent discovery and he stealthily drew his dagger for he knew the top box behind which he hid contained some sort of green vegetable, although he had not stopped to study it.

It was portentous that they moved to boxes closer to the door and did not approach him. He might have taken one of them easily if they were startled but the other could easily raise the alarm. As they made to go, he gently exhaled but then the cook spoke again.

"I forgot to bring the keys with me. I will entrust them to you and you must come and lock the door."

Benoit heard the boy mumble a reply but he was disturbed by what he had heard. If he did not move quickly, he would be locked within the storeroom for that door was its only means of exit. He had no intention of spending the night in here especially as the next day would increase the chances of his being found.

He had to get out now.

III

Anne had written and dispatched her missive to Milady whilst Aramis went to his apartment to wash and change. Once ready, he returned to the Queen to discover that the outcome of the errand was not good.

According to the housekeeper remaining at the property, Milady de Winter had already packed and departed in her carriage earlier in the afternoon.

He had tried to remain calm, not wanting to upset the delicate peace that had been restored between the Queen and him. She was watching, wide-eyed with worry as he absorbed the disappointing news.

"What will you do now?" she asked as soon as the messenger had taken leave of them.

"It is too late to do anything now for by the time we get organised, it will be dark. She will have a few hours' head start on us but she is slowed down by being in a carriage whereas we will be on horseback. We must make ready to depart at first light."

"And Athos? Will you tell him?"

"I have to, Anne. I cannot keep this from him," Aramis said. "The others will need to know too about why we must change our plans and leave earlier. I had hoped Athos would have the opportunity for further rest before we rode out."

"Will he be strong enough for the journey?" Anne was genuinely concerned.

Aramis sighed. "I hope so. At the very least, grim determination and the need to fulfil his task will keep him in the saddle and focused to get to Desmarais' estate. What happens then is anyone's guess."

"I am so sorry," she whispered. "I did not mean to create more problems. I thought only to keep you, Athos and the others safe."

He put his arms around her and drew her close, kissing her forehead as he did so. "I know you did it with the best of intentions, Anne, but let this be a lesson to you about acting on your own and making your own decisions. It worries me that you open yourself up to danger like that and I cannot help but wonder why you felt it necessary to employ Milady in the first place. Thank goodness you have had no recourse to use her before."

Resting her head against his chest, she went still in his arms and was relieved that he could not see her face, would not detect that there was yet another important fact that she was withholding. It was one more secret, one more lie between them, but she could not tell him.

She had no way of knowing how he would react if he ever learned that she had already used Milady de Winter to assassinate her traitorous brother-in-law - Gaston, Duc d'Orleans.


	22. Chapter 22

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **I am so sorry about the delay. I am directing the Christmas show - a review of songs, readings and sketches and we are four weeks into rehearsal. In the past, I have devised my own show but with work and my other writing, I volunteered to direct but did not want to write, so we have pulled out a show my friend wrote many years ago. Rehearsals began and I had nowhere near the number of people she had originally. The show was next to impossible to do as it was, so I have had the task of a massive re-write! I had absolutely NO inspiration until 5.15 pm Tuesday! Hours of writing later, I had six pages to give the cast last night. Huge relief when they liked it and laughed in the right places. Now I just have the rest of the show to do by this coming Tuesday! NO pressure then, but then I had all of you waiting patiently for the next instalment. Here it is and profuse apologies if it is not up to scratch and littered with errors. I will catch up with responding to those who have commented on last week's chapters; I really do appreciate you all doing that.**_

CHAPTER 22

Despite his outward show of making peace with the Queen, Aramis was unable to completely dispel his sour mood and his ride back to the garrison only served to give him thinking time about what had transpired with Anne and what it meant for their relationship. He raged at himself for allowing the situation to be blown out of proportion and desperately tried to rationalise how he felt.

She had lied to him, was his first thought. But had she? Information had deliberately been withheld but she had not lied. Athos was Janus and Milady was dispatched to dispose of Desmarais – there were no lies involved. The Queen had, he was forced to acknowledge, told the truth. He breathed a sigh of relief but it was short-lived as another menacing whisper permeated his thoughts.

"But she kept things from you – secrets, and not minor ones at that."

They were significant, he had to admit, but were they tantamount to some sort of heinous crime? How could he trust her? Would he not forever be wondering what else she had managed or arranged? What more was she not telling him? He felt that intentionally withholding information was a lie in itself, something designed to misdirect.

His head ached and he longed for a glass of wine.

She had employed Milady with the best of intentions, she said. But had she? Was that even the truth?

He groaned aloud and the horse pricked its ears at the sudden sound from its rider. Stroking its neck, he then patted it subconsciously. He had never had reason to doubt her before and he must not start now. How could he object to what she had done when he only had to stand back and look at his own life? It was one shakily constructed upon a foundation of lies and secrets, knowingly cuckolding men as he cavorted with their wives because he could. Even in his military career, there were the interesting embellishments or twisting of events that he and his brothers had been known to use, especially if it was calculated to avoid incurring Tréville's wrath. The manner in which he had used Marguerite so that he could see the Dauphin more easily was not something of which he was proud, especially when she later committed suicide because of her guilt at betraying him to Rochefort.

He was, he was forced to admit, no stranger to falsehoods, the greatest being when he had been indiscreet with the Queen and, as he believed, fathered the Dauphin. As much as he, Anne and the embroiled Athos had attempted to maintain the secret, that reality had ultimately been revealed. But he had been lucky – and not for the first time in his life. Rochefort had been brought down and the 'truth' declared a lie until the King, in the weeks before his death, disclosed that he had long believed the story of infidelity to be fact, ostracising Anne from his affections and taking pains to limit her power over the child he acknowledged as his own only for the good of France.

Aramis shut his eyes, trusting the horse to pick its own way through the streets.

"Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," he chastised himself.

By the time he rode into the garrison yard, dismounted, handed the care of his horse to one of the stable boys and walked unannounced into Constance's kitchen, he was in no better frame of mind but much of his anger was at least now directed towards himself. Porthos was already present and seated at the table, as was Constance, who arched in discomfort and rubbed at the base of her back. D'Artagnan, meanwhile, was seated on a stool by the open fire, slowly turning the small spit on which was skewered a joint of meat. Juices dripped into the flames and sizzled as a mouth-watering aroma of what was to come filled the air.

Aramis grunted a greeting and reached for a bottle of wine that stood open. Pouring himself a full goblet, he downed it in one and replenished it before he threw himself down into a chair opposite Constance.

"You've had a good afternoon then," Porthos observed drily.

Aramis did not answer and merely rolled his eyes.

"Is the Queen alright?" Constance asked worriedly.

"Absolutely fine," Aramis declared, his tone immediately suggesting otherwise. He glanced around the room. "Where's Athos?"

"He will be here shortly," d'Artagnan told him. "He slept throughout the rest of the afternoon. I have not long been to wake him up."

"Care to share with us what's wrong?" Porthos asked, acutely aware that something had happened to upset Aramis' equilibrium.

"Anne and I had our first disagreement," the First Minister announced. "A major one."

"It 'appens," Porthos concurred. In the short time he had managed to spend at home, he and Elodie had had several clashes over seemingly inconsequential matters, so he could not help but wonder at the significance Aramis was laying on such an event. He and Anne were not the first to experience a lovers' tiff and they most certainly would not be the last. It was d'Artagnan who silenced him with a warning look.

"The Queen has taken it upon herself to save us the bother of traipsing over the countryside to visit Desmarais' estate," Aramis announced.

"What has she done?" d'Artagnan wanted to know, guessing correctly that this was the root cause behind Aramis' black mood.

"Employed an assassin to solve the problem!"

"What?" It was d'Artagnan who responded first. The other two sat, open-mouthed, in mute shock. "But we were going to secure proof of his treachery."

"A fact that seems to have entirely escaped Her Majesty in her wisdom." Sarcasm oozed from Aramis, his ire returning with a vengeance.

"She must have had her reasons though," Constance spoke up, ever the one to support the monarch and her friend.

"No doubt," Aramis came back, "but don't defend her, Constance. She thinks to save us trouble but it is more to keep me in Paris."

"You can't really believe that," d'Artagnan remonstrated with him.

"I can and I do. She went on to admit it anyway; she can't bear to think of me getting into any danger."

"An admirable notion," Constance announced, her eyes narrowing at what she perceived in Aramis as an unreasonableness.

"Perhaps," Aramis countered, "but I wonder if you will be so willing to be accommodating when you find out the identity of said assassin."

The three stared at him, knowing that whatever he was going to say was going to be of some profound consequence.

"Who is it?" Porthos was impatient to hear. It must be someone whom they knew or Aramis would not be building up the drama.

"I'll give you a clue," Aramis went on, a distinct bitterness entering his voice. "Think of someone a bit taller than Constance, green-eyed, untrustworthy and good at turning up when you least expect her."

"No!" d'Artagnan breathed, his eyes wide in disbelief. "You can't mean … not ….." After all the years of not seeing her, he still could not bring himself to utter her name.

"She's working for the Queen?" Constance was incredulous.

"And has already set off on her task," Aramis continued. "She must have left some time this afternoon."

"Workin' for the Queen or not," Porthos growled, "the only thing that matters 'ere an' now is that she's gone to take down Desmarais without a shred of evidence as to what 'e's up to. We need to get there, find that proof and an' anywhere else it leads. If 'e's dead, we're not goin' to able to do that. We 'ave to get after 'er and stop 'er."

"Stop who?" The unexpected voice from the open doorway made them all start guiltily and they turned as one. Athos was standing there, leaning against the wooden frame. He had put on a clean shirt but the voluminous linen hung loosely about him and his eyes were still bleary from sleep. "I will ask again. Who has to be stopped?"

His clipped words and cadence suggested that he actually knew the answer but was adamant that he was going to hear it from them. Porthos, d'Artagnan and Constance all looked towards Aramis in the clear and unspoken understanding that they were delegating the responsibility to him who, distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect, took a deep breath before making his pronouncement.

"Anne has employed Milady with the task of killing Desmarais."

If Athos had not propped himself up in the doorway, he probably would have fallen. As it was, he was ashen, his mouth opening as if to make an utterance that was not forthcoming. His breathing was suddenly ragged as he pushed himself upright, turned and staggered from them. D'Artagnan made to go after him but Aramis caught his arm.

"Leave him. He needs to absorb this news. I shall go after him in a little while."

"Do you think he's alright?" Constance could not hide her alarm.

"He looked sick," Porthos added.

"As would you in his place on hearing that she is back yet again," Aramis added. "He needs time to himself."

Out in the yard, Athos stumbled to the nearest table and sank onto a bench. He had subconsciously positioned himself with his back to the yard, perhaps mindful that if there were any musketeers wandering, he did not want to arouse their curiosity by appearing to be in a state. His heart was pounding, his head swimming and, laying his forearms on the rough wood of the table-top, he rested his forehead on his clenched and sweating hands, closing his eyes as he fought to control his breathing and suppress the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him at the unexpected news.

Torches were lit around the yard, flaming brightly in their sconces and yet throwing swathes of the open space and the recesses of buildings into deep shadow. Vulnerable, he was oblivious to all of this, disregarding years of training and merely assuming that the confines of the garrison were safe. Had he been able to form a coherent thought, he would have known that history could remind him of several occasions when the yard had been far from the sanctuary it should have been. His nemesis, Delacroix, had waited for him in the darkness years before and a former lieutenant, Savatier, had caused death and mayhem to many within its perimeter walls, but their attempts paled into insignificance when compared to the machinations of Grimaud, who destroyed the greater part of the musketeer home by blowing up its armoury in the aftermath of Tréville's funeral.

He was so caught up in the turbulent emotions raging within him at the mention of his estranged wife after so long, that he was unaware of the stranger who lurked behind him.

Benoit had escaped from the stockroom and made it as far as the stables when the cook's boy had reappeared to lock the door of the small room. He had watched warily as the boy returned to the main block, flattening himself against an outer side wall of the stable block, from where he could see the comings and goings of musketeers, alone and in pairs. He listened to their jocular exchanges and smirked at the more ribald comments of two who went through the same door used by the boy. From the noise of chatter and merriment within and the rich smells of cooking that emanated from the same place, he correctly concluded that it was the mess hall, or whatever they chose to call it. His stomach rumbled pathetically and he realised that he had gone from early morning without having eaten. No wonder he was feeling so hungry.

Thought of food was rapidly in danger of becoming an obsession when another door was thrown open and a figure lurched into the yard and to a table, dropping down onto a bench with such vehemence that it must have jarred. The man was pre-occupied, that much was obvious, especially as he ran his hands through his hair several times in quick succession before letting his head sink forward onto his arms, at which point he became still.

Benoit's mouth had gone dry and he tried to moisten his lips with his tongue for he had recognised the figure as soon as he had emerged. It was the man who had sparred with the First Minister in the afternoon, the one he thought went by the name of Athos; the man Desmarais wanted him to kill. Here was the opportunity for which he had been waiting. The man, obviously distracted, was alone and seated, back towards him. Sliding the dagger from its place at his belt, he was encouraged by its familiar weight and feel.

Benoit would have to move fast and in silence. He toyed with the idea of cutting straight across the yard, his imagination already sinking the blade into the man's back in one swift move before there was any chance to cry out - but he hesitated. Candles flickering in rooms told of where men were, any one of whom could venture out into the evening air at any moment as they went for their meal. No, it was better if he circumnavigated the yard for it provided ample shadows and places of concealment should anyone suddenly appear. His stomach rumbled noisily again and he held a hand over it, as if that might suppress the sound. To him, it was loud enough to wake the dead, let alone alert the pre-occupied man who was his target.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Benoit had managed two small strides when the door through which Athos had emerged opened again, warm light spilling out across the dust as the First Minister sought his friend.

Aramis would never know the import of his timely appearance, how he had potentially saved Athos' life, but he was too intent upon seeking out his troubled brother.

He dropped onto the bench beside Athos, set two goblets on the table and filled them both from the wine bottle he was also carrying. Aramis did not speak, even as he pushed a drink towards Athos, who eyed it with the deepest suspicion.

"And watered wine is supposed to help me how?" Athos asked gravely.

"Try it and see."

Not waiting to be told twice, Athos took a mouthful, his eyes widening a little in surprise. "Watered wine without the water! It could become popular."

"Thought you might be in need of it," Aramis responded, sipping at his as he was mindful of what he had already quickly swallowed without having eaten.

They sat drinking for a while and it was not until both goblets had been replenished that Aramis spoke, breaking the tense silence that lay between them.

"I am sorry, my friend, that you had to find out about Milady that way, that you had to hear of her at all, but it seems that the Queen, minus most of the facts, has called upon her to assassinate Desmarais to save us all the hassle of finding the evidence to bring him to justice."

Athos cleared his throat. "Hers was the last name I expected to hear but somehow I am not that surprised. She has stayed in an area and near those known to her; perhaps she has the reassuring need of some familiarity."

"It means that we will have to leave at first light tomorrow for we must stop her or get to Desmarais before she is able to carry out her task."

"Of course. We need to make immediate arrangements."

A strange sense of calm and practicality had settled upon Athos now and Aramis recognised his intent expression; the strategic mind was already at work, planning what they would need, what they would do when they caught up with Milady, how they would proceed with securing the proof they required. There was a sense of reassurance at seeing him assume a role he had held for so long, that of responsibility, decision making and plain soldiering, but Aramis could not quell the concerns he also had about Athos merely using it as a convenient means to suppress what he was really thinking and feeling. He had only just begun to give some voice to his loss and the focus upon apprehending Milady in light of their tumultuous history might cause him to revert to his former state of uncommunicativeness.

"Are you up to the journey?" Aramis asked worriedly.

There was the familiar narrowing of the eyes, the disdainful look in response to such a suggestion.

Athos stood and looked down on his friend. "We will find out, won't we? Come. We have plans to make."

He picked up his empty goblet and disappeared back inside as Aramis hesitated briefly and watched him go, shaking his head in consternation.

From the shadows, Benoit watched the exchange but was too far away to hear anything for the men had deliberately kept their voices low. It was an annoyance for there were no musketeers passing by who might overhear their conversation. He might have been very surprised had he heard his employer's name mentioned and the fate that awaited him.

Now he was in a dilemma. He had missed his best opportunity thus far. At least he knew his victim braved the outside and might do so again before the evening was over but should he risk it? After all, he still had to get out of the garrison without detection.

With no-one in the yard, he decided to move from his present location down the side of the stable block and into the stalls themselves, believing it to afford him a better vantage point. Hurriedly and surprisingly quietly, he gained access to the stables and made himself comfortable in the nearest stall. The configuration of the stables themselves meant that a covered walkway fronted the building to keep the boys dry as they worked, and even wind-driven rain could not penetrate far enough inside to dampen straw or cause the horses discomfort in inclement weather. The stalls, though, were essentially open onto the yard, a half-gate for each being the only things that kept the mounts confined. The line could house ten horses and even as he crouched in the last stall – fortunately an unoccupied one - he could hear the muted snorting and stamping of hooves that suggested a similar line of stalls backed onto this one. That was still an insufficient number for the regiment so there had to be more animals nearby but he had not deemed it necessary to undertake a full reconnaissance of the garrison.

Two hours passed uneventfully. The sound of men leaving the mess hall and calling loud goodnights to each other provided the only break from the monotony and he was seriously thinking of abandoning his watch and concentrating upon how he was going to facilitate his escape from the yard when he was almost discovered.

Four men emerged, talking animatedly and in the torchlight, he recognised them as the First Minister, General Porthos and the musketeer Captain, along with the fourth man, his target, and the one he now firmly believed was the fourth _Inseparable._ D'Artagnan called out two names and Benoit's heart almost gave out in fright as two boys ran from a tack room at the other end of the stables from where he was hidden. He had not thought that anyone might be so close. He pulled straw over himself and lay there, hardly daring to breathe as he heard the boys moving about, saddling horses and leading them out into the yard. When the noises had receded, he risked throwing off the straw and crawling on all fours across the straw before easing himself up until he could peer over the half open gate to the stall where he had secreted himself.

The General and First Minister were taking their leave and rode out through the archway together. D'Artagnan laid a hand on the shoulder of one of the stable lads, clearly giving a string of instructions from the way the boards were listening intently and periodically nodding in understanding. Eventually they turned on their heels and he dropped out of sight as they ran back into the stable block and shut the door on the room from which they had appeared. He suspected that that was also their allocated place for sleeping.

When silence fell once more, he inched his way upwards to see if anyone was about for he was determined to give up for now; he had been within the garrison walls for many hours and nothing could detract from his boredom, stiffness and overriding hunger.

Or so he thought.

Annoyingly, D'Artagnan and the other man were deep in conversation in the very middle of the yard for some minutes and then, to Benoit's horror, they began to slowly walk towards the stable, their words gradually reaching him and taking on form.

"I've told the boys that you will be needing a good mount for our ride tomorrow and have suggested this stallion, Têtu." The Captain was the one speaking, Benoit recognised his voice.

"Headstrong. I hope his name is not too literal," the other man replied. His voice was low, rich and yet edged with a hint of tiredness.

D'Artagnan laughed. "He is strong and will certainly carry you fast and well to Desmarais' estate but you have handled more awkward beasts than him. He is, however, quite a character; I think you two should get along."

At the mention of the Baron's name, Benoit was both alarmed and intrigued and, throwing caution and good sense to the wind, he crouched low and eased his head gradually around the partially open gate so that he could see with one eye the two men mere feet away by a specific stall. Why were they going to Desmarais' estate?

"As long as I can keep up with you three, that is all I ask. I don't want you to lend me an animal that has no hope of lasting the distance."

"There would be no chance of that. Look for yourself, he is a fine beast."

The man entered the stall to inspect the horse he was to ride and emerged moments later, evidently satisfied.

"And this," d'Artagnan said, his hand slapping the leather of a saddle which straddled a wooden bar alongside several others against the wall of the tack room, "will be your saddle."

Benoit could see it clearly and an idea was forming in his head; he could not believe his luck at such an opportunity.

"Thank you," the man replied.

"You are welcome. What happened to your horse? You must have had one to travel to Paris."

"I did but I stabled it on the outskirts of the city and paid heavily for the privilege, but I have not been back so the ostler will probably be claiming it for his own by now. It was not the soundest of mares, I will admit."

"Never mind. You will appreciate Têtu all the more," d'Artagnan laughed and slid an arm around the other man's shoulder as he led him from the stable, "but now we must get some rest. We have an early start in the morning."

Benoit listened to their receding footsteps and voices before warily emerging from his stall. Light-footed, he made his way down the line, pausing to cast an eye over the animal the man was to ride. It was undoubtedly a magnificent beast and it rolled its eyes defiantly at him as it snorted and stamped a warning. He glanced towards the door of the tackroom, hoping that the horse had not given the stable boys notice of his presence but there was no noise from within. The boys had to be well-disciplined and retired promptly, especially as they would be expected to be up, tending the horses and having them ready for departure.

He could not believe that his chance had come in this manner and was so easy. Drawing his dagger, he moved towards the saddle, the fingers of one hand stroking the smooth leather and making their way down to the cinch. With barely suppressed satisfaction, he used the dagger to damage the leather enough for it to hold when the horse was saddled and the ride began, but not reliable to withstand sudden stress.

And he already knew just what he was going to do to initiate that – and where.


	23. Chapter 23

_**Dear all, I am so sorry that I have been away for so long. Work commitments and deadlines were horrendous as we approached the end of term, Act 2 of the show has now been rewritten and rehearsals are back on track for opening night five weeks on Wednesday! Just need to learn lines now! Airports, flying and seven days in the Spanish sun last week meant that I could write this chapter, start ch. 24 and even begin my own novel in earnest, as well as all sorts of other adventures.**_

 _ **I have done a quick proof read and used spellcheck etc. Any surviving errors that creep through are entirely my fault!**_

 _ **So, the last we saw was Benoit plotting to take down Athos for Desmarais. Will he succeed? Read on to find out ….**_

CHAPTER 23

I

Fortune was smiling upon Benoit, if he did but realise it. His deed done, he crept from the stables and slipped across the yard towards the archway. He could see the two guards, backs towards him and never once suspecting that any problem would be presenting itself from behind them. Fingering the dagger hilt, he pondered his next move. One man he could take down easily with an element of surprise, but two?

As the minutes ticked by, they talked across the span of the entrance, occasionally moving from one position to come together, muttering some gossip or lewdness which resulted in their shared laughter before they moved back to their original places. He gauged the distance from where he was currently hiding to where they generally stood when they came together, and wondered if he stood any chance of bridging the gap swiftly and silently enough before alerting them.

He had no need to worry as a blessing came in another guise. Sudden drunken shouts in the street and the sounds of a scuffle drew the immediate yells of warning from the two duty musketeers and they both left their posts to intervene.

Seizing his opportunity, he moved quickly through the archway, briefly looking to the right where an ungainly, alcohol-fuelled brawl was in the process of being halted by the soldiers. Benoit turned left and slid away into the night.

He needed to collect his belongings from Desmarais' vacated lodgings and be on the road. It was not conducive for a safe journey to ride through the darkness but if, as he suspected, the four men had decided to be on the road at first light, he had to be ahead of them to fulfil the second part of his plan.

Benoit wondered briefly if they were going to have any other musketeers to ride escort. After all, the First Minister of France was travelling and he doubted the man would go far without some protection.

He snorted in derision at the notion of protection: the four of them were the infamous _'Inseparables'_ after all was said and done. All of them were highly trained soldiers, with skills that were deeply ingrained and therefore not easily lost. They still sported a Captain and General amongst their number and, if his assumptions were correct, a former officer with the experience of leading the regiment to war. What need did they have for a protection detail?

It was frustrating that through all the hours of hiding and from the snatched conversations he had overheard, the fourth man had never been addressed by name, so Benoit still did not have a positive identification. It had begun with a niggling suspicion and blossomed into an unverified belief given the easy interaction between them that this had to be the Athos of whom he had heard so much.

A church bell chimed the half hour and he knew that he would have to move fast for the city gates would be locked for the night and he would have no means of leaving Paris until daylight. It was imperative that he reach the place along the route that he had selected to prepare the next part of his plan and his priority was to collect his horse. He was forced to abandon his belongings; none of it was of any significant or sentimental value to him. Perhaps there would be another visit to Paris in the near future when he would be able to retrieve them but perhaps, he hoped, the outcome of his plan would be enough to please Desmarais so that the man would reward him handsomely as a result. It needed to cover what he had forsaken in Paris at the very least.

II

It was a glorious early morning with the promise of excellent weather for the day ahead when the _Inseparables_ rode through the northern city gate and left Paris behind them. They had said little as they departed from the garrison. A number of the men had been about and watched them mount up. News had already spread that Alain Caronne had been left with the authority over the garrison and he had been reassured that the palace had been apprised of his temporary role. The position would, as many might have expected, have fallen to Brujon had he not already been assigned a mission.

Caronne's initial surge of pride dwindled when he learned that the duration of his 'promotion' was unknown. His immediate thought was that it would only last for a couple of days, not long enough for him to make any heinous errors in this, his first taste of responsibility. To find that his tenure was likely to be much longer caused the colour to drain from his face and his eyes bulged as he imagined all manner of catastrophes that might befall the garrison and him. D'Artagnan categorically refused to register the man's hesitancy in assuming command – he had seen it all before when Tréville had delegated responsibility to Athos and, he had to confess, he had had his own qualms when Athos had later relinquished that same authority to him. He would never have considered Caronne had he not firmly believed that the man was up to the task and just needed the opportunity to come out from behind Brujon's shadow.

Now, having left Paris well behind, d'Artagnan and Porthos rode together in front of the other two as the road narrowed between large trees that had been allowed to grow too close by the wayside. The eyes of all four men were watchful, instinct coupled with years of honed skills determining their acute level of alertness. Not for them were the experiences of many an unwary traveller who had fallen foul of vagabonds and thieves in similar conditions.

"Constance didn't come to see you off this morning," Porthos noted lightly, trying to sound conversational as he inquired after the obvious absence of the fiery brunette. His sharp eyes scoured the trees and undergrowth on his side of the road.

"We had already said goodbye," d'Artagnan replied with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders and using his own scrutiny of the treeline as an excuse to avoid making eye contact.

The silence between them grew longer.

"Everything fine between you?" Porthos pressed.

"Fine!" was the curt reply. Porthos waited, his patience finally rewarded when d'Artagnan sighed heavily.

"She was tearful again and I …" He gestured helplessly with an outstretched hand, palm upwards, "and I wasn't as sympathetic as she wanted me to be. You understand now?"

Porthos didn't. How could he? He had met Elodie in the final stages of her pregnancy and was the only one at hand when she suddenly went into labour. He had helped to deliver the child - a little girl – whilst his brothers fought off desperate men, deserters from the King's army, as they raided the women's village. He had not seen first-hand the mood swings, the tiredness, the morning sickness, the self-doubt as body shape changed but nor had he felt the incredible elation on first hearing that prayers had been answered and a child was at last expected. Not for him the euphoria and preparation for he had, thus far, walked into a ready-made family when he married the widowed Elodie. His devotion to her child was unquestionable though and it did not save him from the worry and responsibility of parenting, both of which he had fully embraced.

It had amused him to see Athos' absolute terror in the days following Grimaud's taunting revelation that Sylvie was with child and it was undoubtedly one of the major factors contributing to his decision to resign his commission. He had the opportunity of a fresh start, a happiness that had been denied him for too many years and something his friends suspected he had given up all hope of ever attaining. Certainly the romance between him and Sylvie had been anything but smooth and they had guessed – correctly – that he had tried to walk away from the relationship at least twice, if his tight-lipped, embittered silence had been anything to go by. When she had struck up a close friendship with Constance, she had sought her advice in handling the terse and melancholic captain, believing that Constance had some idea but she had merely shaken her head sadly.

"It has taken the boys a long time to get him to open up and explain many things; he keeps much to himself, not least how he feels about anything. They can read the little nuances of his facial expressions and body language far more than I can and that is a consequence of years of close contact with him."

But Sylvie had persevered and d'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis had held their breath as they watched each tentative chip at the defensive wall Athos had constructed around himself; they had seen it crumble and had been quietly jubilant when he finally accepted what they could clearly see as the inevitable. What they had _not_ seen coming was when he announced his decision to walk away from the regiment after twelve years of soldiering and it had come as an unsavoury shock, one with which they rapidly had to come to terms, especially with its ramifications.

Porthos loved his little step-daughter as if she were his own flesh and blood and he would protect her without question whilst he still had breath in his body so, try as he might, he could not even begin to imagine the hell that Athos must be living with the loss of both Sylvie and Raoul. Pangs of guilt ate away at him as he selfishly whispered rapid prayers to any deity that might listen to spare him from that particular experience. His marriage to Elodie had been sudden, with little chance of a protracted courtship and, shortly afterwards, he had returned to the front, but the knowledge that she was there waiting for him, worrying about him and that he had a domestic anchor after all these years was a gift and comfort; he could not think of what his life would be like without her now,

"I can hear you thinking," d'Artagnan quipped, "and you've got that serious look on your face."

Porthos grunted. "I was thinking of you and Constance with the baby about due, an' me an' Elodie with our little one. Even Aramis is close to the Queen and young Louis." He dropped his voice for fear that the two riders following might overhear. "An' what has Athos got after all this time? Nothin'! Again! Seems like he's never destined to find an' keep that happiness and peace of mind."

D'Artagnan reflected upon the words. "It makes me value what I have with Constance even more. The baby, my Captaincy – I am truly blessed."

Porthos gave a wry grin. "You've come a long way since that lanky, mouthy farm boy from Lupiac in Gascony stormed into the garrison that day after Athos' blood."

D'Artagnan was sombre. "We have _all_ come a long way since then, brother. A lot of it has been good but there's also been too much that we could have done without. I wish that Athos could find a long-lasting peace." He paused. "Do you really think he'll recover from this?"

"He's Athos. He'll keep goin', no matter what, but I don't know if he'll ever be the same. I worry that at some point down the line, he'll be worse than when he first appeared in Paris after Milady an' all that. Aramis reckons he hasn't done any real grievin' for 'is family yet."

"Even though he was in such a state when he came to us?" d'Artagnan's brow furrowed.

"'E thinks we're in some kind of calm before the storm, that what Athos has been reactin' to is more out of shock and 'is usual guilt, especially as he wasn't there to prevent this from happenin'."

"Does Aramis predict when this 'storm' might hit?"

"When Desmarais is brought down," Porthos said without hesitation. "Right now, Athos has a purpose an' when that is dealt with, that's when reality will hit."

"We will be there for him," d'Artagnan said determinedly, although his heart questioned whether, on this occasion, their brotherhood would be enough.

"We're here for 'im now," Porthos reminded him.

Behind them, Athos and Aramis rode side by side in a companionable silence. They knew from the body language of their friends that they were engaged in a muted conversation not meant or their ears and both tried to ignore the natural curiosity as to the content of the discussion.

"Emil Allard?" Athos suddenly asked quietly, his gaze never leaving the treeline.

Aramis shrugged in mock humility. "A stroke of genius on my part."

The low 'harrumph' from Athos could have been disbelief or a mark of mild amusement but Aramis welcomed it nonetheless.

"And you think Desmarais is not going to question the authenticity of a secretary whose name means 'noble rival'?" said Athos, an eyebrow raised quizzically.

"You are the most noble man I have ever met," Aramis declared sincerely, "despite the poor claims of many I have encountered at court, and you must admit that you are Desmarais' rival in bringing him to justice."

"I am sure he will realize that the name is utterly false," Athos asserted.

"Do you really think so? This is, after all, the man whose own name means 'marshland'. I think that is too generous. With his misdeeds, I prefer to think of him as a swamp!"

This pronouncement produced something akin to a soft chuckle from Athos and it was sheer music to Aramis' ears. He knew that such moments of levity were few and far between with his suffering brother but each one was precious and not to be undervalued.

The trees gave way to an open hillside and they began to descend through grassland. In the open and able to see a considerable distance, they dismounted and walked a while to give respite to their horses who grazed periodically, their riders content to wait.

The landscape changed again when they reached the valley floor. A stream flowed through it and the men took the opportunity to replenish water bottles and ate bread and cheese, part of the limited provisions they had brought with them, as the horses drank their fill.

Following the stream once more, it led them into the mouth of a rocky gorge, the towering limestone sides climbing steeply on either side of them to the height of five or six men. There was evidence of several previous rock falls and they were forced to ride in single file, their mounts picking their way carefully through the debris. D'Artagnan went first, closely followed by Porthos, then Aramis with Athos bringing up the rear. They were silent, watchful, concentrating hard upon their route and so heard the first warning sounds of small stones skittering down the rock face towards them. All looked up just in time to see a sizeable pile of fractured rock high above them begin to slide.

"Move!" Porthos roared and spurred his horse on in d'Artagnan's wake.

Rock fell around and between them, some pieces shattering on impact and ricocheting upwards again with a frightening velocity. The horses shied, eyes wide and rolling with terror as they whinnied their alarm to each other.

D'Artagnan cried out as a jagged projectile struck and cut him, a blood trail temporarily blinding him as it ran from the wound on his forehead. Porthos drew alongside him and grabbed the reins, guiding the confused horse beyond danger. Reining in, he pulled his horse's head around so that he could look back, happy to see that Aramis had almost reached him but Athos was struggling with his unfamiliar, strong-willed mount, despite his being a good horseman.

Têtu was living up to his name and circled uncontrollably, as if indecisive as to which direction he should go. Starting one way, more falling rock disorientated him and he backed up, despite Athos shouting words of encouragement and desperately trying to coax him to follow the other horses. When one particularly large rock crashed noisily to one side, Têtu was galvanised into action, screaming and rearing up on his hind legs.

Porthos could only watch in horrified disbelief as the saddle gave way, both it and the rider falling heavily to the ground.

"Athos!" he bellowed at the prone figure, sprawled upon the gorge floor as rock continued to rain down on and around him. Arm above his own head in a futile attempt at protection, Porthos tried to ride back to offer assistance but his horse would not obey him in the face of the continued natural onslaught.

When the shower of geological ammunition ceased falling, an uneasy silence temporarily accompanied the settling dust.

Face down, arms and legs spread-eagled where he had landed in an inelegant heap, the upturned saddle off to his right, Athos lay worryingly still.

High above the scene, a figure briefly leaned over the edge to survey the chaos below and gave a self-congratulatory grunt as he saw that his man was down. With the cacophony of rock crashing to the ground, he had not heard Porthos yelling the name that would have confirmed Athos' identity - but Benoit did not care at this point. Desmarais had ordered him to kill the man and, as far as he was concerned, he had succeeded. The body was unmoving, a fine layer of greyish dust discolouring the dark blue doublet and breeches, and prematurely ageing the dark, tousled head.

Not needing to see anymore and concerned that one of the other men might decide to investigate the cause of the rock fall, he straightened and turned to where he had tethered his mount. Pulling himself into the saddle, he could not suppress a wide grin of satisfaction.

In the end, it had been surprisingly easy. Mission accomplished!


	24. Chapter 24

**_Dear all,_**

 ** _Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the lovely comments; I think I have got back to nearly everyone and, to those of you who are guests, thank you so much for taking the time to give your encouragement. Still new folk press 'follow' and 'favourite' - thank you so much. l love reading your theories, what you think is going to happen next and what you dearly want to happen to some characters - usually something dastardly to the 'baddy'. For most of you, Benoit is leading the way on that one. Me? I despise Swampman (there, I've caught the bug of nicknaming one of my own characters; thanks, Aramis!) Lots more to come yet; another plot twist occurred to me during the week that makes things increasingly difficult for our heroes, one of them in particular. "Oh, what a tangled web we weave." (I'm sure one of you will come back with how I've misquoted that - wish offhand I could recall its origins!)_**

 ** _Anyway, back to the gorge and a prone Athos!_**

CHAPTER 24

"Don't move him," Aramis ordered as, followed by his two friends, he moved as quickly as he dared over the rock debris and dropped to Athos's side.

Tentatively feeling for a pulse in the neck of his fallen friend, he hesitated and then nodded with relief to reassure the others that their brother still lived and breathed. Carefully, and with a long-practised skill that had never been forgotten, Aramis ran his hands lightly over the bent limbs to ascertain that no bones were broken there.

"So far, I can find no injuries," he commented aloud as he turned his attention to Athos' head. Exploratory fingers ran through the matted curls, feeling for bumps and abrasions. When he found none, he sat back with a sigh. "Help me turn him over," he requested, and Porthos and d'Artagnan both offered willing hands.

As they rolled Athos onto his back, he showed the first signs of fighting his way back to consciousness, quite literally. Resisting their helping hands, he groaned loudly, his eyes not yet focusing as he struggled to sit up.

"Whoa! Wait a minute, Athos; I'm just wanting to examine you and don't try to tell me you're fine," Aramis pre-empted as he checked the man's movements with a firm hand against his chest.

Propped up on one elbow, d'Artagnan supporting him at his back, Athos worked to bring his breathing under control, winded as he was by his sudden impact with the ground. He did, at least, cease his writhing as Aramis concluded his inspection.

"A few bruises, minor cuts and abrasions but you'll live," Aramis announced, his feigned glibness masking the immediate concern he had felt on seeing his friend's prone body. "I'll just clean you up," and he rose and went to his horse to retrieve a bag and water skin.

Athos watched him with a sideways glance and waited until he had returned before speaking again. "Don't tell me you have brought along your medical supplies?"

"Old habits die hard," Aramis responded, dampening a cloth with water and dabbing gently at a cut on Athos' cheek.

"Shouldn't you start with d'Artagnan? He's bleeding more than I am," Athos suggested, having turned his head and noted the blood streaking the Captain's face. D'Artagnan merely gestured that he could wait.

"Now," Porthos began, pushing himself up to his feet from where he had been crouching, "as it seems nether of you is about to breathe his last, I'm goin' to investigate somethin'," and he walked the few paces to where Athos' saddle had landed.

He spent some time examining it carefully and then straightened up, tipping his head back as he looked up the sheer face to the point where the rock fall had started. He strode purposefully over to where his horse waited patiently, calm restored, and took up the reins. Aramis, meanwhile, had turned his attention to the Musketeer officer.

"Where are you going?" d'Artagnan called. "Ouch!" he tensed and pulled back from Aramis' ministrations.

Porthos had mounted. "Just goin' to look at something; I won't be long."

"Let me come with you," d'Artagnan insisted, pushing away Aramis' hand. "I really am okay," he insisted. "You and Athos stay here," and with that, he was up and gone.

Aramis shifted his position to sit more comfortably beside Athos and began to tidy away his medical paraphernalia. "I have missed this," he sighed.

Athos was sitting upright now and brushing the dust from his clothing; he was both surprised and relieved that there were no rents visible in the fine cloth. It was bad enough that he would arrive marked at Desmarais' estate looking as though he had come directly from a street brawl, without resembling one who had been pulled through a thorn bush backwards. The corners of his mouth twitched in barely concealed amusement. "You have missed playing medic to us or our persistent endeavours to hold you off with your treatment?"

Aramis grinned. "Both. The more awkward you all were in resisting me, the more I knew you would all live to fight another day. It was when you were uncharacteristically compliant that made me worry most." He took a mouthful from the water skin and then, without capping it, held it out to Athos.

Accepting it with a nod of thanks, he raised it to his lips and took a long drink. "I would have preferred it to have been a good wine."

Aramis chuckled. "No doubt but that will have to wait."

Athos suddenly grew sombre and stared ahead of him down the gorge. "When I left Paris, I never drank to excess again; I was never even mildly drunk."

"I am glad to hear it," Aramis softly answered.

There had been too many times in the early years of their friendship when he and Porthos feared that Athos would drink himself into an early grave. Either his body would have irrevocably surrendered to the ravages of the substantial alcoholic abuse or, when they were not with him, he would have got himself into a situation from which, in a drunken state, he could not extract himself. Usually, he was a melancholic drunk but he had the capacity, on the rare occasion, to become a roaring belligerent, hell bent upon taking on the world and the devil if he could. Aramis and Porthos had had their own fair share of drunken brawls – frequently with the Red Guard – but they were, by and large, happy and reckless when inebriated, lacking the frightening darkness that consumed their friend's soul. The Minister had learned from Porthos and d'Artagnan that the years of war, responsibility of command and the lack of readily available alcohol had enforced a general abstinence upon the regiment's reluctant Captain but even when they were all finally back in Paris and fighting the corruption of Feron, the Red Guard and Grimaud, Athos had never reached for the bottle in the way that he had done in previous years.

Now, Aramis gave silent thanks for the continued, steadying influence of the woman who had slowly gained Athos' trust and love.

"Never even mildly drunk," Athos muttered again, his face taking on an indecipherable expression. Was it misery, anger or bitterness? "Never, until …." His voice trailed off, his eyes fixed upon some unseen horror.

"Athos," Aramis prompted gently, reaching across and laying a hand lightly on his friend's forearm to bring him back to the present. This was the second time he had made reference to the severe drinking bout upon which he had embarked after hearing the news of his family's slaughter. Aramis remained silent, wondering if this was going to be another of those impromptu revelations that were sometimes given from the other man.

His breath caught as Athos slowly turned his head to look at him with green eyes filled with a deep anguish.

"Until ….you know. The women told me as gently as they could and then they took me to the grave. Later, a couple of them gave me more details and the names of the men who were directly responsible. After that, I just drank and drank and drank. I don't know what I hoped it might achieve; experience has taught me often enough that I can't drink to forget but, somehow, I did this time. I forgot several days; I have no idea what happened during that time. Gerard, husband to one of the women, was sitting with me when I eventually woke up properly, only to realise that I was still living the nightmare – there was no forgetting, no other waking up. In my drunken rage, I had smashed up the house. All the little things that had meant something to Sylvie – and to me, because they had pleased her so much. I could not stand the sight of them." His head dropped, whether from shame at the memory or grief, Aramis was not sure.

"Oh, my brother," Aramis' voice broke at the story he had heard. He put an arm carefully around Athos' shoulders, mindful of how resistant his friend used to be to any tactile gesture but, this time, he was not pushed away. Athos allowed himself to be pulled closer until their brows touched.

"I would give anything I have to spare you this pain," Aramis whispered, unable to trust his voice or his emotions.

"I know," came the soft reply, "and for that I thank you, just to know that you and the others are with me, but there is nothing that can ease this. I caught the two men who did it, thinking that I might feel something: anger, satisfaction, anything," Athos groaned his admission, "but there was nothing. Nothing. Just emptiness. I need to get Desmarais," he pulled back, his eyes beseeching Aramis. "He must pay for this. He gave the men their orders; he let them behave like that. He has Sylvie and Raoul's blood upon his hands. I have to bring him down for them."

"I understand," Aramis replied, "but you cannot act alone in this, which is why we are here with you. He must be brought back to Paris to stand trial as a traitor and we will find that evidence to convict him and see him executed. You cannot just kill him, do you hear me? He must face his crimes, _all_ of them which he will do, for we will make sure of that."

"Sylvie and Raoul must have justice." Athos was almost begging now. "It is my responsibility; they are …" He corrected himself. " _Were_ my family."

"And they will have their justice, Athos, but that is what it has to be, and not blind vengeance."

"What are you saying? Are you trying to tell me that I must desist in this? I have to do something," Athos persisted, his features darkening.

Aramis was deeply worried about his friend's fragile state of mind and the more information he was drip-fed by Athos, the greater that concern became. He had known him when at his lowest point – or so he thought – but this was something else, not just one more disaster in a life defined at periods by overwhelming tragedy, but something more and it frightened Aramis. Despite what he had endured, with the help of his brothers and guidance of Tréville, Athos had always eventually risen above his personal demons and had been stronger as a result, but Aramis could not shake the fear that it was not going to be so easy this time because the ramifications here were so much more devastating: Athos had lost his love _and_ his son. Aramis had come too close to losing the woman he loved and his own son when Rochefort told Louis of the Queen's infidelity with the then-musketeer but disaster had been averted, although not without further subterfuge. All he knew was the fear of what might have been, unlike Athos, who was living the stark reality and Aramis could not help but wonder how he might have reacted if the worst had befallen the Queen and Dauphin – even had he been allowed to live to experience the luxury of that reaction.

If Athos were to kill Desmarais soon, would he really find the closure that he so desperately was seeking? Aramis did not think so. Whilst able to quote scripture verbatim that taught vengeance was the responsibility of the Lord God alone, he could understand his friend's need for justice, but killing Desmarais was not the way. Yes, they had all killed countless men in their time, but that was when they were soldiers and it was required of them. Their opponents – honourable warriors - had fallen on the field of battle within the constraints of war, or were felons, killed whilst deliberately evading arrest. There were those who had been cut down when they presented a very real threat to France or her royal family, or when the Musketeers had come under attack, provoked or otherwise, and they had been forced to defend themselves.

Here, though, Aramis was afraid of a cold-blooded murder. He had been chilled by Athos' emotionless account of how he had hunted the two men he sought, obtained confessions from them – Aramis did not want to know how – and killed them. This was not the Athos he knew and he could not help but think that suppressed grief forced his friend to walk a thin line betwixt sanity and madness. For Athos to have his own redemption, to move on in the future, he must be made to see that Desmarais had to face the justice of the French court.

Aramis changed direction of the conversation and sought to verify one of his theories. "Besides drinking yourself insensible, have you allowed yourself any time to mourn them properly?"

Athos' guard was up now and Aramis could almost see him rapidly thinking through the reasons behind the question and the potential range of expected answers. "There will be time to mourn them when all this is over," he announced and his tone seemed to chill the very air that hung heavily between them.

"I mean …"

"I know what you mean, Aramis. You are eager to determine if I have allowed myself to feel anything other than the brief respite offered by an inebriated insensibility. If you must know, I have not shed a single tear for either of them." His cold objectivity stunned Aramis for a moment but then, just as suddenly, he seemed to collapse in on himself, his shoulders slumping and that intense sadness that permanently lay just beneath the surface appeared in his eyes once more. "I did not know how to. I could not let myself for fear that once I gave way to it, I would not stop and that I would be useless in seeking retribution for them."

He took a deep, shuddering breath and Aramis saw his ever-present fight for control, the steadfast, green gaze wavering for a moment as those very tears which he denied himself threatened to overwhelm him.

Aramis wondered if he dared be so cruel as to push Athos that final step, to make him divulge the key piece of information that he had so carefully refrained from voicing.

"Sylvie and Raoul," he whispered. "How did they die?"

It was the step too far and Aramis knew it the moment he had uttered the words. The wall came up, impenetrable and fully restored, although it took every ounce of Athos' being to resurrect it. He sat rigidly, his teeth clenched, breathing noisily and erratically through his nose even as he shook his head vehemently. In his mind, there were no words that could express the horror of what had happened and he would not try.

If he felt any guilt at what he had just attempted to do, Aramis was spared the prospect of dwelling on how else he could have handled the situation by the sound of horses heralding the return of Porthos and d'Artagnan, and they both wore equally grim expressions.

Thankfully distracted by their arrival, Athos and Aramis scrambled to their feet and walked to meet their friends.

"What news?" Athos asked, fully composed once more so that the two returning friends would not think anything had been amiss.

"Well, for a start, the girth on your saddle was cut," Porthos announced, gesticulating to the saddle that now lay behind them.

"What!" Aramis exclaimed in disbelief.

"It was fine on the ride until it was put under strain, such as we experienced in this gorge," d'Artagnan went on.

"So that got me thinkin'," Porthos continued, "an' I went up to where that rock fall started."

"And you found something," Aramis prompted.

"We certainly did," d'Artagnan declared and looked at Porthos to continue the tale.

"A large branch was layin' there on the ground. I bet it had been used to lever some of those loose rocks so that when they started to fall against others, the lot went. What's more is that the ground up there is still wet an' muddy following on some rain an' there are plenty of footprints."

Athos frowned. "How many?"

"All belongin' to one person; male, I'd say, on account of him shifting that rock. He's done plenty of walking backwards and forwards and then there was his horse. Tracks in and tracks out, keepin' in line with us from what it looks like. They come from the south east …"

"From Paris perhaps," d'Artagnan interjected.

"An' are headin' in the direction we're goin'," Porthos finished and waited whilst the others absorbed his words.

"One of Desmarais' men?" Aramis asked, turning to Athos who shrugged in response.

"But why?" d'Artagnan demanded. "He does not know that we intend visiting him. "Brujon was instructed not to say anything whilst he was providing the escort and collecting the prisoners. There is no way that Desmarais has found out."

"Bit of an odd coincidence then that we just 'appen to be on this route an' we nearly get squashed by a rockfall. Even bigger coincidence that the one who nearly bought it is Athos bringing up the rear an' he thinks Desmarais suspects 'im of killing two of his men _and_ it just 'appened to be 'is saddle that was interfered with," Porthos said pointedly.

"But there is more than one way to Louviers," d'Artagnan persisted.

"Which is the way Desmarais has probably gone because he'd never get a coach through 'ere. We all knew when we planned this that this was the fastest route an' we needed to catch up with Milady as soon as we could."

"And if she is in a coach, she will have taken the other route which means we could well be ahead of her," d'Artagnan complained.

"Gentlemen!" Aramis interrupted as their voices began to rise. "Discord between us is getting us nowhere. Recall, if you will, the map. This route joins with the main one further along. What we do not know is when exactly she left yesterday; we could just as well come out close behind her and catch up with her before she reaches Desmarais' estate or, if we are ahead of her, we could apprehend her before she gets there. However, this does not alter the fact that someone decided to throw some very large stones at us and I, for one, did not appreciate that."

D'Artagnan grinned, his anger quickly abated. "And that comes from the master of understatement!"

"If this is not Desmarais' doing, then we have some very lazy bandits along this stretch of road. They set up a clever ambush which, I might add, they started back in Paris if the sabotage of my saddle is associated with this," Athos said calmly. "They have not followed through with their attack if that is the case for we have not been robbed and wold have been easy victims in the gorge."

"How would anyone have known it was your saddle or which horse you were going to ride?" Aramis reasoned.

D'Artagnan gasped, drawing the attention to himself. "Athos and I were in the stables after you had left us. I showed him Têtu and the saddle he was to use."

"You think a stable boy is in on this?" Porthos frowned.

"No!" d'Artagnan said, quick to defend those who worked within the garrison. "Nor do I think it will be any of the other musketeers."

"I hope not," Aramis breathed, his eyes looking skyward. "I pray to God we have no more traitors in the regiment's ranks; we've seen enough of those in our lifetime."

As the men mumbled agreement amongst themselves, Athos offered another disturbing suggestion. "Then it means that someone had infiltrated the garrison and was hiding somewhere to know just which saddle and mount were mine."

"In the stable while we were in there?" d'Artagnan was aghast but Athos nodded. The idea that garrison security had been breached, had been found wanting, was an anathema to the young Captain.

"But who could it've been?" Porthos refocused them.

Suddenly d'Artagnan's eyes widened in realisation. "Benoit!"

"What?" Aramis did not understand.

"Athos told us this Benoit is Desmarais 'right hand man'. He was with him at the palace and spent a long time keeping Brujon in conversation; I didn't know at the time whether to rebuke the musketeer or rescue him." D'Artagnan's eyes widened even further but this time in horror. "Brujon was apologetic for he wondered if he had said too much. The man had seemed nice enough when he engaged him in conversation and the boy didn't want to appear rude but Benoit was asking lots of questions about us, the _Inseparables_ and," he looked to Athos, "he seemed particularly interested in you and your prowess with a sword."

"But 'ow would 'e 'ave known about Athos?" Porthos, as well as the other two, was looking most confused.

A frustrated sigh broke from d'Artagnan. "Because Brujon was singing Athos' praises as a swordsman. Don't ask me how this all fits together because I don't know but I have remembered something that could possibly be very important."

His three friends waited expectantly.

"When I went to introduce Brujon and the escort to Desmarais, I waited until the Baron and his entourage had departed. He actually didn't have too many travelling with him so I watched them go. I would swear to it that Benoit was not riding amongst them and he most definitely was not in the carriage with Desmarais."

"So he could have remained in Paris," Athos said quietly.

"Watching for you," Aramis added.

"In which identity?" Athos asked. When the others looked puzzled, he explained. "Was he looking for Olivier d'Athos, owner of a small holding just outside Louviers, whose family has just been mercilessly murdered and who might be out for revenge, starting with the two men responsible? Or was he looking for Athos, ex-musketeer and an _Inseparable,_ because he is strangely fascinated by my – how did you put it? – prowess with a sword for some reason? Or has he successfully made another loose connection in some way between me and my investigation into Desmarais' other activities with the Spanish?"

Porthos breathed out noisily. "Well, put like that, it could be any of those reasons. What matters, Athos, is that you seem to 'ave got yourself a new enemy, a bad'un, and you 'aven't even been tryin'! 'E hasn't even met you as Emil Allard yet; that's bound to confuse things a bit more!"


	25. Chapter 25

**_Dear all, I am SO sorry for my silence. I have been fighting a throat virus for nearly four weeks now and for ten days had nothing above a whisper. No time off work though! Made teaching an interesting challenge but the students were all great, responsive and we turned finding methods of communicating into a game! It was not so easy with trying to direct rehearsals. Opening night is 8 days away - I am in it too and can at least speak but cannot sing yet! (Unless folk like listening to a demented bull frog!) Then the last two weeks was an intense turn around on marked exam papers plus a two-day school inspection thrown into the mix!_**

 ** _Anyway, I have rushed to complete this chapter tonight, I have not proofread it properly so apologise in advance for the likely existence of a billion typos! Will be interested to hear what you think of the plot twist here! (Gives a little grin that is part tentative and part evil!)_**

 ** _Will try to get another chapter up before the show next week but I can't promise anything; please forgive me._**

CHAPTER 25

I

Benoit had ridden hard once he had caused the rock fall, pushing his mount relentlessly and without regard for its wellbeing until it stumbled and struggled to retain its footing, at which point common sense prevailed and, although there was at least another hour of daylight remaining, he set up camp on the banks of a shallow stream and loosely tethered his animal there. He did not want to lose the animal through negligence and have to walk the rest of the way, for it was imperative that he reach Desmarais quickly and warn him of the impending visit by the First Minister as well as relaying the information that he had dealt with 'the problem', as he now euphemistically referred to Athos in his head.

He hoped that events in the gorge would have slowed the men considerably and he wondered if they would proceed to the estate with the body or even turn around and head straight back to Paris, as that was marginally closer. It was, inevitably, a waiting game but at least the Baron would have been forewarned.

II

"I keep telling you that I am fine!" Athos insisted as he sat propped up on a bed in one of the two rooms they had secured in the first inn they reached. "We should have pressed on whilst we still had daylight left."

"And slept out under the stars when you so recently were knocked unconscious?" Aramis objected loudly. "I think not."

"Nor have you fully recovered from the serious fever you had," d'Artagnan added, earning himself an approving nod from Aramis, reassured as he was that someone was agreeing with him.

Porthos roared with laughter. "Come off it, you two. It's no good you pullin' all that 'concern for Athos bit' when the real reason is that the First Minister here has got too used to the good living an' comfort, an' is too soft to spend the night on the ground anymore."

Athos' lips twitched in amusement even as Aramas began to splutter a fierce denial.

"Your protestations are a little too vehement, I fear," Athos said lightly. "Relax; I promise not to complain too much about the facilities as long as you promise to let me get some sleep as you insist upon the pair of us sharing this room tonight."

Aramis smiled in response but wondered if the comment hid a more serious directive in that he was to refrain from asking any more probing questions. It had crossed his mind to take advantage of the situation when they were alone together once the other two had retired to the room they had been assigned, but now he feared that his plan was futile. Athos had never been one to be pushed into divulging information and it said something about his current state that he had revealed as much as he had in the aftermath of the rock fall. It was clear that Aramis was going to have to be patient, an adjective that his friends had seldom used to describe his spontaneous nature.

A knock at the door signalled the arrival of their dinner, ordered a little earlier. The four had decided to eat in one of the rooms, away from the prying eyes of the locals that might frequent the place during the evening. The four were incongruous in every way: their mounts stabled in the yard were of excellent bloodstock, whilst saddles and tack were of the highest quality; their clothes announced them as men of rank and status, and there was the unspoken question surrounding the two who bore superficial injuries. The innkeeper had been keen to oblige, sensing that he would be well-recompensed for his accommodation and services, even if it inconvenienced him a little, but he recognised men of standing and he did not want to upset or offend in any way. On their instruction, he had ransacked his cellars for bottles of the best wine and he had urged his wife to be generous with the food portions.

When he had gone, the aroma of the hot food proved too much and the four men quickly fell to eating, conversation at a minimum.

"Mmmmm, that was good," Porthos sighed appreciatively, a contented smile on his lips as he slapped his full stomach with the flat of his hand. "You can't beat simple country fare."

"All food is good to you," d'Artagnan joked, raising a tentative hand to the cut on his forehead and grimacing as he felt the soreness.

"Serves you right," Aramis scolded, having seen him. "Leave it alone and it will heal; it stopped bleeding ages ago."

"I may have developed a more 'discerning palate'," Porthos laughed, "but it doesn't stop me from hankerin' after the plain, fillin' food that soldiers have."

"Very plain and not always filling," Athos added quietly, thinking back to the four hard years he had spent fighting against Spain.

"Agreed," Aramis went on, eyeing Athos' empty plate. "I am pleased to see that you have eaten well tonight."

"It must have been all the fresh air we had today; it has given me an appetite," Athos said, his voice and heavy lids suggesting a tiredness that he would not be able to fight for much longer.

"We had plenty of fresh air in the old days, even before the war," Porthos teased, "but I don't recall food bein' your priority very often. The way I see it, we were 'avin' to persuade you to eat more often than not."

Aramis stiffened at the veiled reference to Athos' drinking habits; in the light of what had been said to him after the rock fall, he did not want the former Captain to be offended. To his surprise, the green eyes took on an amused gleam.

"So you haven't had to persuade me to eat tonight, perhaps that allows me to have a full cup of wine this time. Aramis may have ceased watering it down for me but I would like to taste the stuff and d'Artagnan was a little restrained in his pouring. If we are going to talk about how we are to proceed with Desmarais, I need something to the discussion easier."

With cups refilled and no stinting when it came to that of Athos, the men grew serious for each of them recognised that their task resembled the search for a needle in haystack.

"We could just thump 'im until 'e confessed," Porthos offered as a way of opening the conversation.

D'Artagnan, grinning, clouted him on the forearm at the unhelpful suggestion whilst Aramis frowned.

"As much as I do not like the man and would love to take a short-cut in events, especially if it caused him a great amount of discomfort, we are going to do this by the book, aren't we, Athos?" and he looked directly at the grieving man as if to gauge his reaction and dare him to say otherwise.

Porthos and d'Artagnan watched their friends in uncomfortable silence and then exchanged an equally uneasy glance for they sensed something else in the challenging directive. What was even more telling was Athos' deliberate refusal to offer a reassuring answer.

"Do you have any ideas about how we are goin' to go about this?" Porthos asked, hoping the innocent question mighty diffuse the sudden tension in the air rather than fuel it.

"I am not familiar with the layout of the inside of Desmarais' chateau," Athos explained, "and only a passing knowledge of the outside, so we must establish what rooms are where as quickly as we can. We might need to develop some diversionary tactics so that one or two of us can steal away to search the place to get that information. It would arouse unnecessary suspicion if we were to ask too much of the servants and I expect that we will be engaged in a more detailed search for evidence as soon after that as we are able."

"I assume there will be no problems about our staying there once we have turned up unexpectedly at his door?" d'Artagnan ventured.

"He would not presume to turn away the First Minister of France," Porthos insisted as he topped up d'Artagnan's cup. "Certainly not with 'im bein' so keen on invitin' us all to dinner. It wasn't our fault 'e got called away from Paris all of a sudden."

"But we haven't come all this way just to take him up on his offer of dinner!"

"Course not! We've got some kind of ruse planned, 'aven't we?"

Aramis nodded. "He came to me concerned about the revolt regarding the increase in taxes and I said that we were more than willing to offer support. Athos knows that the people were subjected to two tax increases when only one had been sanctioned from the Council in Paris so why the second? Where did the money go and why did he need it?"

"P'raps 'e got greedy and wanted to redecorate the chateau," Porthos speculated, not really believing what he was suggesting.

"If that is so, we will see the outcome for ourselves, won't we?" Athos said.

"And he can confess such greed to our faces if that is the case," Aramis continued. "In the meantime, we will ask to see his books. We can say that we are visiting a number of estates to see the impact of the higher taxation and assessing the effect of the same upon the tenants. He should have a record of the taxes he has raised. I have checked details of moneys raised by him and paid into the royal coffers over the past year and seen where the first expected increase was initiated but there is definitely a discrepancy between what we have been given and what Athos says has been demanded of the people now so what is Demarais doing?"

"My sources lead me to believe that he is providing funds for the Spanish and so we must find that evidence. I do not, for one moment, think that his books will be trustworthy but I think he is not one to maintain some kind of record somewhere about what he has been paying to the Spanish and when. There has to be evidence of contact with enemy agents, of some kind of bargain struck with them. What does he hope to gain from this?"

"Buying some kind of safety in the event of a full scale invasion from the north?" d'Artagnan wondered.

"I am convinced of it. He is also suspected of passing on information about French troop movements to intercept the Spanish before they launched a full scale retreat."

Porthos cursed at Athos' words; such treachery could have endangered the lives of so many men under his command positioned defending French territory in the north of the country. "He was askin' me all sorts of questions about our plans for the area."

"Me too," d'Artagnan admitted. "I thought he was taking an unhealthy interest in matters which were of no concern to him; now I understand why."

"I certainly do not expect him to have readily available in an obvious place any bound documents appertaining to all this; I think they will be hidden away somewhere, hence our probable need to search the place thoroughly. However, I would also have you alert to the possible existence of a counterfeit purchase order for some forestry land adjacent to my property. If we could find that, it would be the start of untangling his web of lies," Athos informed them.

D'Artagnan cleared his throat. "And what of Milady? What if she gets there before us?"

Athos breathed in deeply. "The Queen apparently sent her word that musketeers were acting as escort so that should have deterred her from making any move against Desmarais on the journey to his estate. She had left Paris, though, when the Queen sent her another order to stand down from her task so we have to hope that we get to Desmarais before she has had a chance to act."

The silence that followed was filled with questions that no-one dared ask; questions relating to Athos' feelings about the likelihood of encountering her soon, how he might react and what he would do if she had already killed Desmarais.

"We still have no real idea as to why you were targeted in that attack in the gorge," d'Artagnan said, eyeing his friend worriedly.

Athos shrugged. "We will not find out for sure until we confront Desmarais and his man Benoit, if he were to be the one responsible. We do not know the origin of the information but we must presume that Benoit knows where we are destined and he will warn Desmarais, thereby denying us the element of surprise."

"We ought to consider settling down for the night then," Aramis instructed. "Benoit cannot be too far ahead of us and must stop for the night if he has any sense. We will need to be on the road at first light; we are unlikely to catch up with him but we certainly do not want him to have the chance of giving the Baron a lengthy warning.

"No," Athos agreed, his face growing sombre. "We must not give him the opportunity of destroying the evidence we so desperately need."

III  
"What?" Desmarais exclaimed late the next morning when Benoit gave him the news of the Minister's potential arrival.

"But he may not come," Benoit insisted, shuffling uncomfortably as he stood before the Baron's desk. "He may well decide to return to Paris with the body of his friend."

"Yes, so you were telling me. You think you have successfully disposed of somebody you think is a former musketeer captain. You do a lot of fruitless 'thinking', don't you? They were heading this way for a purpose. The First Minister of France is not going to leave Paris on a whim. 'Oh, I think I'll just go for a ride out to the Louviers area and look in on my good friend, Baron Desmarais, and I'll take three ex-musketeer colleagues just in case.'" He never elaborated upon 'in case of what' in the mocking voice he assigned to the First Minister.

Benoit made the mistake of smiling slightly in amusement, causing Desmarais to lose his temper entirely, snatch up the glass goblet from his desk and hurl it with force at the man who stood before him. Benoit had the speed and presence of mind to duck as the goblet sailed over his head and smashed into shards against the opposite wall.

Desmais leaned his weight on his hands on the desk top, the gesture causing him to lean forward menacingly. "And why do you presume the man is dead? Did you see him brained by a massive rock? Was he buried, obscured by a hillside of rubble? No. His horse reared, the saddle broke and he fell off! The fact that he lay there unmoving does not mean he is dead, you imbecile! He was probably just unconscious. If you're right and he was a musketeer, he has spent years in the saddle and has probably had more spills in action than you can count!"

He paused for breath and glowered at Benoit who had paled at the unfairness of the tirade. He had never wanted to fulfil the demand in the first place but had complied and done the best he could under the circumstances. There were reasons – three of them, all with a soldier's instinct and skills – as to why he had not remained to determine whether or not Athos had actually been killed, but he had wished so eagerly for that outcome that it seemed he had convinced himself that it had happened. It was so obvious now that he could have jumped to an erroneous conclusion.

"So now they will be hammering on my door and not very happy," Desmarais hissed.

"But they do not know it was me," Benoit sounded more like a boy defending himself against an unreasonable charge.

"We will soon find out, won't we? This could not come at a worse time for me. I've not long had the musketeer escort leave for Paris with the prisoners for questioning in Paris. I have a good idea as to the accusations they are going to try to put forward against me. Then I have a visitor whom I would prefer to spend time entertaining." He watched as Benoit raised a questioning eyebrow and Desmarais could not suppress the smile that resembled more of a lecherous sneer. "The delectable Duchess of Bedford and the source of a deep financial money bag that will keep the Spanish happy for some time."

His face clouded over.

"But that will take time, time I haven't got. I have arrived home to a missive from Spain. Their representatives are on their way here and due to arrive in two to three days. No doubt they want the next instalment of their money and I only have about half of it. They will also be wanting more information and I did not discover anything of value to them in Paris, not for the want of trying. If I don't provide them with something, I am either a dead man or they will dispense with my services."

He sank down onto his chair, head in hands and every inch a very worried man. Benoit, though, brightened considerably as an idea struck him.

"But you have something even better to give them!"

Desmarais did not even look up. "And how do you arrive at that conclusion?"

"You will have France's First Minister, one of her Generals, who has been on the northern front line, and the Captain of one of the country's finest regiments. You might not have the actual information but you have something far better. You have the source of that information, a lot of it! Hand them over to the Spanish and the responsibility of extracting all that information is down to them. If this Athos has survived, hand him over too. They can demonstrate their techniques on him, show the others that they mean business."

Desmarais slowly raised his head and looked up at Benoit in amazement. Then his features broke into a fiendish grin. "Do you know something, Benoit? You're not such an imbecile after all!"


	26. Chapter 26

_**At last, the next chapter and I appreciate how patient you have all been. Perhaps a little shorter than my usual chapters but the story continues and apprehension mounts as they travel on to Desmarais' estate (they will arrive there in the next chapter - promise!)**_

 _ **Thank you to all those who read, favorited and commented on 'Dinner for One' (especially the guests, to whom I could not reply.) It broke some five weeks of no writing with the show, run up to Christmas and the festive period itself with family.**_

 _ **If I haven't said it to you already, Happy New Year!**_

CHAPTER 26

I

All things considered, the four slept surprisingly well but a mild excess of good wine possibly had something to do with that. As they broke their fast, Aramis glanced surreptitiously in Athos' direction more than once. The man looked reasonably rested having passed an unbroken night. Aramis had lain awake for some time, listening to the steady breathing and waiting for any slight hitch that might warn of an impending nightmare in his friend but there had been nothing and he, likewise, had eventually succumbed to the pull of much-needed slumber.

Perhaps even more remarkable was that Athos was now eating without complaint or evasion. He had never been one to demonstrate a hearty appetite, unlike Porthos, but on this morning, he ate as though he was enjoying the fare set before them by the innkeeper's wife. He gave the outward appearance of being completely relaxed for the first time since he had returned to Paris, but Aramis knew the countenance for what it really was; he had seen it far too many times. It belied the underlying tension that signalled Athos' readiness, his eagerness to be off, to be putting the latest plan into action, and could there ever be a plan so significant as the one which they were about to undertake? It was the plan that would bring down the man who was a traitor to France but, more important still, it was to destroy the man Athos held responsible for the deaths of the woman he loved and his son. To a casual onlooker, his calmness presented a man in total control, but it was an utterly deceptive composure. Aramis knew that in another time, another place, it had always concealed a highly skilled and dangerous man, but three years had elapsed since they had last stood shoulder to shoulder to fight a common foe. How much more dangerous had Athos become in the intervening years when, for the main part, he had had to rely upon his own experience and abilities to survive as a spy in his country's service? Then add into the mix the magnitude of the personal tragedy that had befallen him, and he was, without doubt, an unknown quantity. At times, there emerged more glimpses of the 'old' Athos and for that Aramis was thankful, although this still fell short of alleviating his gnawing worry.

They left the inn early. It had been their intention from the moment they arrived, but it was a departure borne of necessity to escape the suffocating attention of the innkeeper. Once he had heard part of the story as to why two of them had injuries, he was anxious for their well-being, wanting to call in the help of a local woman who had knowledge as a healer. When he had gone, not convinced by their insistence that Aramis was more than capable of tending them once warm water and cloths had been provided, Porthos scoffed that the man would probably have charged them a high price for his assistance. They had already bartered long and hard for a replacement saddle for Athos' mount and knew they had paid over the odds, for the make was poor in comparison with the sabotaged saddle and definitely less comfortable for the discerning horseman, but he and the Musketeer Captain could hardly arrive at the Baron's chateau riding double as they had done at the inn. D'Artagnan had later insisted, with the help of more coins, that the damaged saddle be looked after until a group of musketeers rode through within the next couple of days and they would collect it. He conceded that it was a very gracious offer but, no, the innkeeper was not required to have it repaired; there were skilled men in the Paris garrison who could deal with it. The innkeeper might not have met a musketeer before, but he knew the significance of the fleur de lis at d'Artagnan's shoulder and the prospect of more soldiers arriving soon who would need sustenance had his eyes lighting up at the lucrative opportunity.

"I don't think he ever actually realised who you were, Aramis," Porthos laughed as they rode beyond the village boundary.

"And for that I am mighty thankful," Aramis breathed in relief.

"Oh, I don't know," d'Artagnan added. "He might have let us stay there for free had he known that under his roof was none other than the First Minister of France."

Porthos laughed again. "I don't think 'e would have coped with that idea. He'd have had heart failure at not bein' able to do enough. Anyway, he probably would've doubled or even tripled 'is prices. 'E made enough out of us as it is."

"You assume he would have been glad to see the Minister," Athos said dryly. "Perhaps, because of what Aramis represents, the welcome could have been less than cordial."

"I don't know what you mean!" Aramis objected and, for another half hour, there continued a banter and light insults passing between the four that was more than a little reminiscent of their days in the saddle as Tréville's men. If any of them paused to realise it, they would have felt a warm fondness at the memory which was also tinged with a sadness at the days long gone.

On a more mundane level, it passed the time and they rode on, alternating periods of silent contemplation with gentle teasing and a more serious reflection on the task ahead.

It was nearing midday when they spotted riders cresting a hill ahead of them and approaching at a steady pace. The four stopped and d'Artagnan took out his spyglass. Having inspected the approaching group, he grinned.

"It's Brujon on the return journey with Desmarais' prisoners."

Athos began to look about him and pointed to a stand of trees a little way to their right. "I will take cover over there."

Porthos frowned. "Why would you want to do that?"

"The men who are the prisoners will recognise me, so you would not be able to introduce me by any other name, nor would we be able to explain my inclusion in this group. We do not yet know how things will transpire and it could compromise me in my work if I needed to return to Louviers."

"They are sound reasons," Aramis agreed. "Is there anything you would have us ask when we meet Brujon?"

Athos nodded. "Ascertain that the local men have not been badly treated and question them closely about the uprising and what led to it. Do they know anything else of Desmarais' dealings? They will be uneasy so make sure that these men know that they are being taken to Paris for their own protection." He looked in the direction of the approaching riders. "I must leave you and will re-join you when they have passed."

Spurring his horse into a gallop, he broke away from the group and headed for the trees where he was soon lost from sight.

Minutes later, Brujon, his company and the dejected prisoners met them; for some, there were enthusiastic greetings.

Brujon looked around him. "I thought I saw –"

"The _three_ of us were hoping to meet you," d'Artagnan interrupted loudly, emphasising the word 'three'. "We would like to speak with the prisoners and have a small errand for you at an inn not too many miles back along the road."

He wanted to instruct Brujon to collect the damaged saddle and hoped the young man would not study too closely the saddles they were currently using, for they were all bona fide musketeer ones and recognisable as such. The replacement was, of course, on the horse of the elusive rider and the Captain wanted to avoid being asked more searching questions.

II

Athos waited until after Brujon and his party had moved on slowly and disappeared around a distant bend in the road for he did not want anyone to turn back and espy a fourth person.

"Brujon reckons we should make good time to Desmarais' estate from here," Porthos said as Athos re-joined them. "'E seems to think we could do it at a good pace in a couple of hours. It's taken them a while to get this far because two of the prisoners are not used to bein' on a horse!"

Athos nodded in understanding. "They are men who struggle to eke out a living on a patch of land; any animal they have must be able to work for a living rather than just providing the means of getting from one place to another. Some of the beasts for ploughing are shared amongst the villagers." He became serious. "How did they seem?"

D'Artagnan took a deep breath. "They are at least walking wounded with visible cuts and bruises from beatings, especially the last one to be apprehended. The explanation is that he was 'avoiding arrest'."

"I'm sure 'e was," Porthos growled.

D'Artagnan continued. "Brujon says the worst is a broken rib on one man and a couple of cracked ribs on another so he is taking that into consideration as he sets the pace for their journey. Given his very recent return from Paris, I doubt that Desmarais had sufficient time or opportunity to warn his men to treat the prisoners with a little more care but they have, at least, been issued with food and water during their incarceration."

"They were fortunate." Athos' expression was grim. "It could have been much worse but at least they are out of his clutches now. What about their accounts of the uprising?"

"We obviously didn't spend too long questioning them; we did not want them to think they were being interrogated on the road but what they told us fits in with the accounts that you heard. They could not pay the increased taxes and tried to approach the Baron but got nowhere. Then the women appealed to him, led by Sylvie. Shortly after that, his henchmen turned up in the village for full payment and all hell broke loose as Desmarais' men resorted to unreasonable violence. The prisoners maintain that they were only defending their property and their families."

D'Artagnan was reluctant to go into any more detail especially when he saw Athos' facial muscles tighten at the mention of the event that culminated in the deaths of Sylvie and Raoul.

"We struck lucky though when we asked if there was anything they could tell us about the Baron's activities, his comings and goings," Aramis added.

It was a definite ploy to lighten the mood and offer some optimistic comment. Athos raised an eyebrow, his curiosity aroused.

"One of them – I can't recall his name – said he was in the forest on Desmarais' land one day when he saw the Baron acting strangely. He was on horseback and alone and constantly looking about him. The man followed him at a safe distance and was led deeper into the forest than he had ever had reason to go before. He was worried about becoming totally lost when they finally reached a clearing in which there stood a small hunting lodge. The man had never known of its existence. Did you?" Aramis asked.

Athos shook his head. "It is the first I have heard of any such place and certainly have never had reason to come across it. When the men of the village and I went hunting, we were careful to do so on the unclaimed land because we did not want the accusation of poaching levelled against us. Of course, that was when the Baron learned of what we were doing and claimed he had bought that tract of land too. It would not be unusual for an estate to boast such a structure when it is large enough for you would not want to terminate a good hunt to travel back to the main property for a meal or at the end of a day."

"Yes, but why was he acting so strangely?" d'Artagnan was now the epitome of eagerness at the prospect.

"I don't know," Athos replied. "Was there anything else the man shared?"

"Only that a horse was already tethered there. Desmarais was meeting someone."

"And do you have any idea as to the identity of this person?" Athos wanted to know.

D'Artagnan merely shrugged. "Of course not, but –"

"So he could have been meeting someone there for all manner of reasons, many legitimate ones. Perhaps he was liaising with one of his men on estate business," Athos pointed out.

"Are you bein' deliberately difficult?" Porthos demanded but there was an amused gleam in his eyes even as he spoke.

"You must admit that his behaviour was strange and exaggerated," d'Artagnan persisted, cutting in before Athos had the chance to respond.

The former musketeer pursed his lips as he thought for a moment and resolved to be the voice of reason. "This information was gleaned from a prisoner who possibly did unwittingly exaggerate. At the very least, he was trying to be helpful and had found people who were prepared to listen to him. At worst, he was attempting to 'buy' some favour from you, not knowing that we are being kindly towards him anyway."

"You _are_ being deliberately awkward," Aramis said and was immediately rewarded by an unexpected smile.

"Perhaps," Athos conceded, "but given our suspicions into Desmarais' activities anyway, the information could be invaluable and is worth considering further. I agree that, on that occasion, he did not appear to be there for the hunting."

"We'd best make haste then and see if we can find out what the man is up to," Porthos said, gathering up his horse's reins and preparing to mount. The others swiftly followed his example.

The road was wide enough for them to ride abreast and they travelled on in companionable silence for some time before d'Artagnan broke the peace.

"I hate to remind everyone and state the obvious here, but we have had no sighting of Milady so far. Could she have already reached Desmarais' chateau and carried out her task?"

Aramis cast an uneasy sideways glance towards Athos at the mention of her name, but there was no reaction. Instead, the man still joined to her in marriage kept his eyes fixed upon the road ahead.

It was Porthos who caught the First Minister's look and shrugged, loath to say anything but realising that some response was necessary. "Only if she's got there in the past three hours or so. Desmarais was alive an' kickin' when Brujon an' his party left there this mornin' because he saw the Baron an' spoke with 'im."

"There is that remote possibility, of course," Athos added, "but I very much doubt it. She would not have had the time for reconnaissance and to identify her opportunity. There is no way that she will act in haste and take unnecessary risks; she will ensure that she has a guaranteed means of escape. I believe that we will arrive to find Desmarais very much alive and suspect that she will be in the vicinity."

"She could be within the chateau," Aramis said carefully, trying to gauge the impact his words might have on Athos but his friend continued as if he had not heard. "We will need to encounter her to stop her from fulfilling her mission."

Nothing! Athos remained impassive.

It was d'Artagnan who finally dared to put into words the question they had been studiously avoiding.

"Will you be alright with that? Seeing her again, I mean?"

Suddenly, Athos pulled hard on the reins and his mount stopped abruptly. The others had ridden past him before they noted what he had done and they quickly reined in as well, watching him as he sat in the saddle, head bowed. They could hear his breathing as he fought to control the wave of emotion that swept over him at the prospect. He must have known that there was an inevitability about the encounter but he, like his friends, appeared to have been ignoring the probability for long as possible. As they neared Desmarais' estate, he did not have the luxury of disregarding the likelihood of their paths crossing.

They waited patiently, knowing him of old and realising that he was struggling to slide the mask of apparent indifference back into place.

Only this time, when he raised his head and his eyes met theirs, it was clear to all that he had tried - and failed.

"I don't know," he whispered, his torment there for his friends to see and his voice cracking with an innate agony. "I honestly don't know."


	27. Chapter 27

_**Thank you all for the lovely comments on the last chapter. I changed my mind and decided to post an even shorter chapter here so that you had something to read – a little 'teaser' if you will. Chapter 28 will be here soon.**_

 _ **Athos may have had a momentary weakness at the end of the last part but the walls are definitely back up here now – as Aramis discovers.**_

CHAPTER 27

"I have to say that the dead body looks remarkably fit and well," Desmarais said caustically as he stood, Benoit a little behind him, at the top of the steps leading down from the double front doors of his chateau. They were watching the approach of the unwelcome visitors as they made their way up the long drive in two pairs.

Benoit smarted at the rebuke. He may have made an erroneous assumption but the situation was not without remedy.

"Just think of him as fodder for the Spanish," he reminded his employer.

"We have to ensure that our 'guests' remain under this roof long enough then," the Baron ordered. "As yet, we do not know what little game they are playing; there has to be something to draw them from the safe confines of Paris. We will go along with it for now but just be aware, that's all I ask. Take nothing they do or say for granted; they must be given no cause for suspicion before the Spanish agents get here."

As the _Inseparables_ headed towards the ornate stone steps, Porthos took a moment to glance behind him to where Athos and Aramis followed. The First Minister made a brave attempt at a reassuring smile but it lacked conviction and Athos had adopted a mask of carefully composed indifference.

"This is not good," the General muttered out the corner of his mouth to his companion.

"How so?" d'Artagnan frowned.

"It's nothing but a recipe for disaster: 'avin' to remember callin' Athos 'Emil' or 'Mister Secretary' – daft idea of Aramis! Does he really think no-one is goin' to recognise Athos when he's lived in the area for nearly three years? Then we've to find the proof we need which'll be like lookin' for a needle in an 'aystack! Or else we go in there hopin' Desmarais is going' to up an' say the wrong thing. Throw Milady into the mix an' I reckon Athos is a powder keg just waitin' to blow."

D'Artagnan looked worried. "Do you think he will cope with seeing her again?"

Porthos hesitated. "I 'ave to repeat what he said; I don't know. If 'e doesn't know 'imself, then how can we say for certain? Aramis thinks he's at breakin' point an' I 'ave to agree. Given what 'appened to him before we knew him was always bad enough, but losin' a loved one _and_ a son? Who knows what that might do to a man an' his sanity? We 'ave to work together here an' keep her away from him."

D'Artagnan shook his head, worry etched deep into his features. "I still think we are in danger of underestimating him; he has always had an inner strength that surpasses that of most people."

"I'm more like to call it awkwardness," Porthos cut in and the young man could not contain his smile at the General's observation.

"I agree but as far as this visit goes, we have to stick close to him and keep Milady at bay when we see her. I can't see us being able to keep the news about Sylvie from her and I would hate it if that gave her the means of taunting Athos and increasing his pain."

The pair continued to discuss strategy quietly even as Aramis glanced sideways towards his silent companion.

"Are you alright?"

Athos' eyebrows rose, seemingly surprised at having been asked the question.

"Of course. Why should I not be?"

Aramis sighed. "Because your estranged wife is likely to walk back into your life before the day's out and she always brings an ill-wind with her. You have lost Sylvie and Raoul whilst Milady still walks tall and with everything she has done to you, I fear that it does not make for a healthy combination."

Cold, green eyes narrowed in warning. "I do not need reminding."

"No, sorry; of course not," Aramis was quick to apologise, "but the three of us are here for you – always; we don't want you to forget that. The next few hours – days even – are going to be far from easy and we want to support you all we can." Aramis' well-meaning attempt to reassure his brother only caused the atmosphere between them to worsen as Athos stiffened in his saddle.

"I thank you for your concern but I need neither protection nor being cossetted as though an invalid to be wrapped in blankets."

"I meant no offence," Aramis hastily added and was relieved when he saw a slight thawing in Athos' demeanour and the acknowledging dip of the head.

"None taken, but I would have you remember that we are here for a purpose and that is to find evidence of Desmarais' wrongdoing. As you refuse to let me deal with him in my own way, I will compromise and accompany you in returning with him to Paris for justice. As soon as that is served, I will be gone. If I do not have satisfaction in seeing him swinging from the end of a rope, I _will_ act. Do you understand me?"

Aramis' heart sank and he involuntarily shivered at the tone. Every word had been carefully and deliberately enunciated and there was no possibility in misunderstanding Athos' intentions. If he did not see Desmarais condemned for his treacherous activities, the Baron's days were numbered regardless, even if Athos had to move alone and beyond the stricture of the law. He was obviously more than prepared to face the consequences that would result. Immediately, Aramis resolved that he would do everything within his power to avoid that situation.

By far the greater disappointment that left his senses reeling was the announcement that Athos would leave Paris once the task was concluded. Aramis had hoped that, with Sylvie and Raoul gone, Athos would at last decide to remain with his brothers, a quartet again once Porthos no longer had to serve at the front in the war with Spain.

There was nothing he could say because his heart was sorely charged at the disclosure and they had arrived at the foot of the stone steps.

In a battle of etiquette and wills, Desmarais did not descend the entire flight of steps, preferring to remain on one that put him higher than the dismounting men. It was a move designed to assert a psychological superiority, forcing the arrivals to look up at him as a group of stable boys ran forward to relieve them of their horses.

A forced greeting ensued as all the men observed the pleasantries, uttered the platitudes and meant none of it. What was more, they all recognised the falseness of the circumstances.

"Minister, welcome!" Desmarais effused, his broad smile not reaching his eyes.

The Baron led his guests up the stairs and into the chateau, the heavy oak doors closing behind them with a loud thud. As they followed their host across the entrance hall to another reception area, none of them looked up to see the large web above the ornate timber panelling that lined the room, nor did they see the somewhat large spider slowly make its way towards a hapless fly caught and struggling in the silken trap.

It was a symbol of the precarious position in which every one of the players now found themselves as this dangerous game of wit, lies and subterfuge opened and, had they witnessed the subsequent demise of the insect, they might have asked a question.

Were they the spider …. or the fly?


	28. Chapter 28

_**Thank you so much for the lovely comments, including the ones from the guest reviewers. It means so much to see my lovely 'regulars' contributing and extra special when someone new joins in – even just the once.**_

 _ **I deliberately gave you a longer chapter today (I've been giving you rations recently!) – look on 27 as the starter and this is the main course for this week! Athos tries to sort out his head with regards to Milady (and doesn't fare very well!) before their paths cross and I realise how convoluted this has become. In their own ways, all the characters are indulging in lies, pretence, subterfuge – you name it, they're doing it. Hope it all reaches a satisfactory d**_ _ **é**_ _ **nouement … eventually! Love the fact that one of you who reviewed said that you like to guess where a story is heading but you're 'along for the ride' with this one. Hope the 'journey' is not too uncomfortable and I promise the ride will continue for a little while yet!**_

CHAPTER 28

Minutes later, Desmarais was inviting the men to sit on chairs that had, in their time, been lavishly upholstered but were now suffering from age and much use, the fabric fraying in places on some and evidence of poor or rushed efforts at repairs on others. Walls, where visible, were cracked and peeling whilst portraits, probably of Desmarais' ancestors given the family likeness, had been hung to try to mask the disrepair. Several large tapestries adorned the walls and, on entering the room, Athos had surreptitiously touched them, recognising by feel and the use of garish thread that these were of an inferior quality.

He experienced an unexpected stab of sadness when a memory surged to the fore of the furnishings and décor of the de la Fère chateau in Pinon. Centuries of possessions amassed over the generations and lovingly maintained had surrounded him for more than the first half of his life. Many of the more contemporary changes had been suggested and supervised by his mother, her husband devotedly funding her plans and tolerant of her requests because he trusted her exquisite taste and eye for colour. She had tried with mixed success to tutor her two sons in the appreciation of art but Thomas worryingly questioned only the monetary value. It was her quiet, studious, older son who wondered at the aesthetic beauty of a figurine, a recently acquired painting or a hand-crafted, leather-bound book and its contents.

That was all in the past now but he could not avoid the sense of regret when he thought about the last time he had looked upon a work of art with an admiring and evaluative eye. It can only have been at the Louvres in Paris and when had he ceased noticing the riot of colour and unique, intricate craftsmanship in his surroundings? It had probably come about through the tedium of meetings, audiences with the monarch or the routine of duty.

It was nine years since he had rescinded his rights to the Pinon estate, handing the land to his tenants, and some fifteen years since he had last responded to his title of Comte but the greatest sorrow was the loss of the house, burned to ashes in the deliberate fire set by his wife in a moment of malice and hatred directed at him. It had been largely destroyed in one night, taking with it the wondrous and varied objects of many lifetimes but it had not succeeded in purging him of his memories.

It was he who deliberately suppressed all associations with Pinon, even the happy recollections of a loving childhood where, as the firstborn son, he was cherished and protected. He understood the reasons behind the sometimes harsh discipline his father meted out to him as he was prepared for shouldering the heavy mantle of duty and responsibility for the estate, its many tenants and the family's role amongst the French nobility. His father had only ever wanted the best for him, even if his methods were, at times, perverse. Athos' younger brother was his playmate, his best friend and confidant, so different from each other but de la Fères through and through – two sides of the same coin.

He adored his mother, from whom he had inherited the traits of sensitivity, and her decline in the last year of life and then her premature death left him bereft and wrought a brutally negative change in his grief-stricken father which never eased until he breathed his last. Thrust into title and duty before he expected, Athos had toiled ceaselessly and tirelessly for the estate for such was his work ethic; he knew no other way.

Until Ann came into his life - an exotic and beautiful whirlwind who could take his breath away with one look, taught him to love with an abandon and passion that he had never thought possible, teased him beyond distraction and convinced him that he was the only person who mattered.

Until she brutally murdered his brother – stabbed him once through the heart because, as she claimed he had attempted to force himself upon her. It still sickened him when he thought of his brother, lying in an ever-increasing pool of blood as she fell to her knees, further evidence of her crime staining the purity of her white dress, and begged Athos to believe her, that she was innocent and that if he truly loved her, he would defend her with every fibre of his being.

How could she have ever doubted that he loved her? He proclaimed his love with a wholeness and intensity that frightened him; that left him reeling until, at times, he believed himself devoid of rational thought. She was his world, even though he had to uphold the law he lived by, the law he represented, even when it smashed his heart into a million shards as he uttered the words that condemned her to the hangman's noose.

His feelings had been a maelstrom of extremes when he discovered, five years later, that she still lived and was intent upon bringing about his death in partial recompense for what had happened to her and which had left her permanently scarred around her neck. Theirs had then been a rocky road for nearly two years, fighting against each other and then reluctantly uniting in a final battle against the deranged Rochefort. In one moment of heady, desperate weakness, they had almost reignited their passion and Ann had offered a tempting olive branch, inviting him to leave everything behind and to join her in a new life in England.

Such was the spell she still had over him, that he had almost succumbed, almost convinced himself that he could surrender the life he had created within the musketeers, abandon the brotherhood he had forged with the other _Inseparables_ and Tréville in order to go with her, but his promotion to Captain and the outbreak of war with Spain had changed all that.

In truth, he could not say whether he really intended to join her or wanted to say a final goodbye, but he had relived a bitter-sweet grief at night alone in his tent at the front, terrified in the dark hours of the responsibility he had been given whilst stoic and composed once the sun came up, a trusted leader of men.

He had only seen her once more, back in his office at the garrison four years later. It was as if his legs had been knocked out from under him, such was his shock, and he had staggered against the doorframe when he beheld her once more. Pure instinct forced him across the room to take her in his arms and crush his lips against hers ….

But she was not Sylvie.

His damaged heart had taken years to heal and he had deftly held off the interest of a number of women, for his noble bearing, handsome looks, bravery and quiet intelligence had attracted many. Sylvie, though, had been so different. He had struggled to remain detached, not to become involved, but he had failed and, with her unconventional loveliness that was a true reflection of her warm and generous nature, he had eventually surrendered to her affection. He had loved her purely and simply because she was everything that Ann was not.

Now Milady had returned to threaten that blossoming relationship. When she made flippant mention of Sylvie, it was as if she had no right to speak her name and he feared what she might do, that she might exact some manic revenge because he had dared to love another. Ann brought out the worst in him, made him feel helpless and utterly ashamed of himself, but it was still a horrific surprise when he realised that his hands were at her throat and his warning to stay away from Sylvie was ground out from between clenched teeth.

Then she had gone and, eventually, he and Sylvie had left Paris, ostensibly to make a new start that had been denied him with Ann. He had been painfully honest when he said to his brothers that he did not know how he would react when he saw her again. That was exactly how he felt now – in pain. The anticipation of her appearance was not inducing a stabbing, debilitating agony that could drive him to his knees in an instant, but an incessant, gnawing ache that worsened as the minutes passed.

If truth be told, he was frightened – of her, of himself and how he might respond to seeing her after another three years or more. Did he have the strength to stand firm against her wiles? He had to focus upon the task in hand in bringing down Desmarais and could not permit any distractions. He also had to hold fast to the memory of Sylvie and Raoul, give them the respect that was their due and that did not include any intrusion by the woman who was still his wife.

All this and more passed through his head in seconds before he suddenly realised he was being addressed by Aramis.

"Emil! Emil, the Baron has invited you to sit as well." Aramis smiled but there was no denying the worry in his eyes at his friend's lapse in concentration. He indicated a high-backed, hard chair positioned almost directly behind him.

Conscious that all eyes were on him, Athos' cheeks burned at his immediate error as he had failed to respond to his new name and he hastily sat down. His role of personal secretary to the First Minister may not have had him on an equal social footing but he far outranked the likes of Benoit, who stood against the opposite wall and blatantly stared at him, and the servants who busied themselves in setting down trays of refreshments and serving the assembled men.

"And this is ….?" Desmarais began, condescension heavy as his voice trailed off and he nodded in Athos' direction.

"Emil Allard, my secretary," Aramis announced breezily. "He has not been with me long and is a little overwhelmed as this is the first time I have had him accompany me out of Paris."

Porthos cleared his throat to mask his snort of amusement for he was sitting at such an angle that he was in the right position to see both Aramis and Athos beyond, and he could not miss the glare the swordsman had given the Minister's back.

"I did not think you travelled much from Paris these days," Desmarais continued, waving away the servant who was holding out a tray of delicate pastries for selection.

"Work has kept me too much within Paris and the palace itself," Aramis easily countered. "Now I am far more familiar with my role and its demands, I have other trusted employees with whom I can leave matters. I have been thinking more of late that I need to visit the distant parts of the country, let people know that the Crown, council and Paris have not forgotten them."

"That is good to hear but I would not have described Louviers and its surrounding area as a 'distant part of the country'."

There was an edge to Desmarais' voice and Benoit was wishing that the Baron would heed his own advice; he was not to arouse any suspicion with the visitors. His tone needed to be tempered in that case.

Aramis gave an airy laugh. It was the practised, empty, ineffectual laugh of the courtier and he took in Porthos and d'Artagnan with a glance so that they too gave a little burst of apparent amusement. Only Athos remained stony faced, aware that Benoit continued to study him closely and he wondered if the man presented a danger, recognising him from his smallholding. He could not know that Benoit was still trying to place him and verify that he was another ex-musketeer.

"Of course this is not distant," Aramis said dismissively, "but I decided that I had to start my trips somewhere so here was as good a place as any."

"But you must have had some reason, Minister," Desmarais pushed. "You cannot have decided upon such a journey as a ride for your health. It has evidently not been without incident for it has not escaped my notice that the Captain here and your secretary both seem to be injured." He had the sense not to look at Benoit at this point.

D'Artagan's hand went up to the cut on his head that was already forming a dark coloured scab whilst there was a tightening of Athos' facial muscles.

"Oh, a little mishap in a canyon; a slight rock-fall, that's all. Nothing serious and it hardly detained us," Aramis assured him.

Benoit shuffled uncomfortably on the spot, much to Athos' satisfaction. He saw it as a confirmation of the man's part in the incident and he decided to engage in the staring match, his expression an unspoken communication to the other man that he held him responsible for the rock fall.

"Your reasons?" Desmarais asked again.

Aramis gestured towards him with the goblet of passable wine he had been sipping. "I thought I could begin not too far from Paris and with someone I knew, especially one who had so cordially invited us to dinner. In my mind, I was just changing the venue and do not wish to put you to too much trouble." Aramis flashed another smile, one that was passably sincere.

"I will have the women air rooms for you on the third floor; there are four currently vacant next to each other that I hope will be to your satisfaction," and Desmarais raised a finger to call the remaining servant who was standing unobtrusively in a corner. Once he had been despatched to pass on the instruction, the Baron considered the entertainment of his guests. "Would you be wanting to do any hunting? I can arrange it for you."

It was an unfortunate turn of phrase, given the reasons for the _Inseparables_ being there and they studiously avoided making eye contact with each other.

Aramis shook his head. "No, no. There will be no need."

"Oh?" the Baron was perplexed and wondering how he was expected to keep them occupied.

Any superficiality in Aramis demeanour disappeared in an instant. "We will not have the time because we want to explore the region, talk to the local people; you know the sort of thing."

"Talk to the people?" Desmarais had gone pale and his voice had risen perceptively. He took a large mouthful of wine in haste, swallowed it incorrectly and dissolved into a coughing fit.

D'Artagnan pretended not to have noticed as he took the lead in the conversation. "We were concerned when you told us of the uprising. We cannot have French citizens taking it upon themselves to behave in such a manner, because they do not accept a ruling from Paris. I know you said order had been resumed but we felt it was incumbent upon us to ensure that that was the case. As a loyal subject to the Crown, it is inconceivable that you have had to endure such insurgency. The Minister believes that his presence and authority will give a hard message to all those who thought to oppose this revised taxation. It is vital that we ascertain whether such unrest has spread further afield so we will be visiting other places too."

Beads of perspiration were on Desmarais' brow but his sense of panic was exacerbated as Aramis spoke again.

"Whilst we are making our rounds of the various estates, we would look at ledgers to see the accounting. It is routine and I am sure there is nothing amiss in your records," he grinned broadly.

Desmarais gave a wan smile in return. "I thank you but you need not have bothered. Perhaps I gave an erroneous impression when I reported the incident to you in Paris. Time and distance have shown me that I exaggerated a little. The situation is totally under control and those trouble makers directly involved have been removed."

"You mean the prisoners on their way to Paris?" d'Aragnan clarified.

The Baron nodded keenly.

"And the ones who were killed?" came a low, menacing voice from the background.

"There were some fatalities, I agree, but I was assured that it was unavoidable," Desmarais was almost squirming under the icy gaze that had him fixed in his chair.

"Unavoidable?" Athos spat but Aramis reached out a calming hand to prevent any further outburst.

"I lost men too," Desmarais reminded them, frowning at the forward behaviour of a mere secretary.

"What Emil means is that we would like to speak to your men who were involved so that he can take down the particulars. I have instituted a new policy that such events should be reported in detail and preserved in records held in Paris so that we see any trends developing so that we can assist in dealing with them promptly and effectively," Aramis explained, creatively.

"There was a time when a noble could look after his own problems," the Baron complained.

"And for the main part, we would not dream of interfering but when the unrest is the direct result of a directive from Paris and you have brought your concern to the ear of the Minister, we cannot ignore it," d'Artagnan added reasonably.

Desmarais did not appear totally convinced but he let the matter rest as another thought struck him.

"You have come to speak with troublesome tenants but there are only the four of you, or have you left a contingent of men beyond my gates."

"There are just the four of us," Porthos confirmed.

"And you do not worry for your safety?" The Baron was incredulous.

Aramis gave a spontaneous chuckle. "I may be the First Minister but, as an ex-Musketeer, not so much time has elapsed that I have forgotten what to do. Besides, Porthos here is a serving General and d'Artagnan the current Captain. We have served together long enough to know each other's skills and methods."

"And what of your secretary? He looks barely strong enough to wield a sword, especially one as fine as that which he wears at his hip," and with that, Desmarais turned all attention on Athos as Benoit's suspicions as to the man's true identity came to mind. It was hard to believe for the man looked sickly, gaunt and thin.

"Oh, Emil?" Aramis leaned forward conspiratorially. "I will concede he does not look robust at present as he is recovering from a recent bout of illness but I credit him with knowing that the pointy end hurts and he has a rudimentary knowledge of how to use it. It is a fine weapon, indeed, but do not be fooled; it is a piece he inherited and wears it mainly for show."

The reaction to Aramis' comment was varied. Porthos and d'Artagnan did not dare look at each other – or anybody else for that matter – for the description of Athos' supposed sword skills could not have been further from the truth and they were, as a consequence, highly amused. He scowled, Desmarais thought it a reasonable explanation and Benoit was not convinced.

There were two doors into the room, the one they had used for entry and another at the opposite end. As he swivelled round in his chair to say a conciliatory word to his 'secretary', Aramis heard this second door open behind him. He did not even have to wait for the newcomer to speak to know who had entered; he only had to look at his friend's expression.

Athos' breath hitched, his face blanched and the green eyes widened barely perceptibly but Aramis had seen it.

"Auguste, I am so sorry to interrupt; I did not realise that you were receiving visitors."

The familiar, sultry tone with its hint of breathy excitement was unchanged.

It was Milady!


	29. Chapter 29

_**Many thanks for the lovely comments on the last chapter, especially to the guest reviewers whom I am unable to contact directly. So Milady has appeared - what next, I wonder? Apologies for any typos or other errors that have slipped through. I wanted to post this tonight as you have been waiting so patiently. Mad that I am, I have landed a part in a play that the company are performing at the city's theatre for May - blocking begins tonight; biggest part for a long while so a frightening amount of lines to learn!**_

CHAPTER 29

I

It was Aramis who recovered first and reacted even before Desmarais had a chance to speak. With an easy grace, he quickly closed the distance between him and the dark haired-beauty and caught up her hand.

"Madam," he began, bowing and raising her hand to his lips. "The fault and apologies are entirely mine. My party and I have suddenly descended upon the Baron without invitation and we never gave him the chance to explain that he already had a guest. Please permit me to introduce my party."

The corners of her mouth twitched in amusement and he saw no surprise in her eyes. She knew they were coming, had probably watched their approach and decided upon the moment when she would make her grand entrance. Although they had expected to see her at some point, she undoubtedly had the advantage over them right now.

"I am Aramis, First Minister for France. This is General Porthos du Vallon and Captain d'Artagnan of the Musketeers." He indicated to each of them in turn before gesticulating very deliberately towards Athos. "And this gentleman is emil Allard, my secretary."

A carefully plucked eyebrow rose quizzically, but she accepted what he said without comment or question. She fixed her gaze on each of them, Athos last of all.

"A pleasure, gentlemen," she purred.

The two soldiers murmured a response as Porthos bowed and d'Artagnan snapped to attention; Athos, meanwhile, neither moved nor acknowledged her.

"And to whom am I speaking?" he asked, maintain the pretence of never having met her

"This is Ann, the Duchess of Bedfordshire," Desmarais interrupted, his expression indicating that he was not enamoured by the fact that the Minister still had a tight hold of her hand. "She is staying here for a few days to break her journey to Calais. From there, she intends sailing to England to conclude business regarding her late husband's estate."

"My goodness, Auguste," she said over her shoulder and never taking her eyes from Aramis, "these gentlemen are not interested in my domestic arrangements."

"Oh but I assure you that we are, Your Grace," Aramis said smoothly. "You have our undivided attention. The pleasure at this meeting is all mine."

"Perhaps so, Minister," she began, laughter bubbling in her throat. "You might, however, forego such pleasure and be so good as to let me have my hand back."

Aramis released her immediately and raised his own hands in apologetic surrender.

He had to smother his smile as she moved closer, inclined her head toward him and whispered softly so that only he could hear. "Still the flirt, Aramis. Some things never change!"

"Perhaps, Minister, my servants can take this opportunity to show you to your rooms. I will have them bring additional refreshments and hot water. I am sure you would all like to rest and freshen up before dinner. We will reconvene here at seven, if that is acceptable to you and your party."

He had heard of the flirtatious shenanigans of the Minister and, painfully conscious of the fact that the younger man had status and power in his favour, as well as the fact that he was more fetching in appearance and charm, he saw him as an immediate rival for the affections of the delectable Duchess. He wanted the two to be kept as far apart from each other as was humanly possible.

"That is most considerate, Baron," Aramis said. "I, for one, would appreciate the opportunity of relaxing for I have not been in the saddle for such an extended period for far too long and no doubt, in light of his recent illness, Emil would find it equally beneficial."

The ill-timed reminder of his lack of weakness only served to make Athos scowl even more and he cleared his throat, a long-standing note of warning between the _Inseparables_ that the speaker was in danger of saying or had already imparted too much. He did not want her to know of his current weakness but it was too late for her attention slid from Aramis to her husband, that eyebrow quirking again in an unvoiced question.

"Until dinner, Your Grace," Aramis bowed gallantly towards Milady. "I look forward to our conversation and am sure we will find _much_ to talk about this evening, not least the matters that bring us all here to the Baron's chateau." To any other listener, his words were innocent enough but, coupled with a barely perceptible widening of his eyes, his message was heavily underscored with a different meaning. It was one she understood though, for her features momentarily clouded and she responded with a slight nod of acquiescence. Just as suddenly, her mood changed to one of lightness.

"But of course, Minister. I am sure it will be a fascinating evening and I trust you will have lots to say about life at court."

She waited until a group of servants had appeared to guide the male guests to an upper floor and then she turned to Desmarais, all smiles and gushing excitement to mask the pounding of her heart and confusion regarding their arrival.

"Why, Auguste, what a privilege! To entertain no less than the First Minister himself! Is this business or social?"

Desmarais was flustered at the entire turn of events, unnerved as he was by the official intrusion and what it entailed, but he now endeavoured to conceal his unease as he led her to a tapestry covered couch and sat with her. He took the liberty of clasping her hand in his and she shuddered inwardly at his clammy touch.

"Merely routine, my dear; nothing to worry about in the slightest. The Minister was telling me that he wanted to escape the palace a little and visit estates further afield. His excuse to the Queen is that he wants to look at some of the taxation accounts so we will humour him in his little ruse. As I made his acquaintance at the palace very recently, he has done me this great honour by visiting me first."

Behind him, Benoit sucked in a breath and rolled his eyes at the tale.

"I do worry if I have done right with his secretary though," Desmarais was perplexed about protocol and said to her, "You would know."

"What do you mean?"

"I seem to have implied that he is also welcome at the table this evening but is not a secretary a fancy servant of sorts? Should he dine with us or separately? It seems too low to expect him to eat with the rest of the servants."

There was no hesitation on Milady's part; she wanted her husband exactly where she could see him so that she knew what he was doing.

She smiled reassuringly, "In this setting, I have no doubt that he could sit with the Minister. I am sure Monsieur Aramis would be quick to advise us otherwise. He seems to have a strange fondness for the man, concerned as he is with his health. It is no minor feat to be the secretary to such an important person so this …" she hesitated as she recalled the name, "Allard must be well-educated, probably versed in the law and the younger son of a minor noble forced to earn his living."

She thought she might have overstepped the mark when she saw the Baron's features darken at the reference to a 'minor noble' for that was his position in the French social hierarchy but then he was the picture of relief at her guidance.

"Of course you are right. If he was meant to eat elsewhere, the Minister would have said so or asked that a tray be sent upstairs to his man. I cannot thank you enough, my dear, for saving me from causing an unintentional slight."

Milady extracted her hand as delicately as she could and sought to wipe all traces of his sweat in the folds of her skirt as she redirected the conversation. "I wonder, though, that he brings two important officers with him." She made no further mention of 'the secretary'.

Desmarais leaned towards her conspiratorially and she smelt his stale breath. "I understand the three of them rode together as Musketeers in years gone by. I expect they are travelling memory lane more than anything else."

He grinned but, in her mind, it was nothing more than a leer and she struggled hard not to recoil from his unsubtle advances. She was fast drawing the conclusion that she did not want to win his further affection so that she might gain reward from him prior to killing him. As each moment in his company passed, the prospect of hastening his end became more pleasant but the arrival of the _Inseparables_ had unsettled her.

What were they here for? What had occasioned all four of them to regroup? It could not be co-incidence that they arrived at the very place to see the man she had been charged with assassinating. Did they know of her task? And what did Athos' false identity signify? It was clear that Desmarais did not associate him with the other three.

II

Upstairs, although their four rooms were adjacent, d'Artagnan would brook no argument and dictated which would be assigned to whom. The General and he would take the two outer rooms for the appearance of security; Porthos would be in the one nearest the head of the stairs whilst the Musketeer Captain would be at the farthest end, closest to the doorway that afforded servants access to the guest rooms. Aramis, as Minister and, supposedly, in most need of protection, would be in the one next to Porthos whilst his secretary would be in the room next door for ease of summoning, should it be required.

Having seen their saddle bags safely delivered and quickly surveying their accommodation, they met again in Aramis' room where the servants had been directed to leave the refreshments. Old habits were hard to forget. Porthos looked down the hallway before he closed the door soundly; d'Artagnan checked the copious cupboards and large, wooden chests to ensure there were no interlopers whilst Athos crossed to the window to get his bearings on where they were in the chateau.

Meanwhile, Aramis was pouring a glass of blood-red wine into an ornate glass and thrust it into Athos' trembling hands as he stood next to him.

"Drink that before you say or do anything else," Aramis ordered and steadied Athos' hand as the tremor became more pronounced.

"That could have been worse," he said softly, dark eyes searching Athos' face for any reaction to the long-awaited reunion with his wife.

Athos was giving nothing away as he stared into the bottom of the now-empty goblet, twisting its stem in his long fingers. Aramis reached out, stilled the motion and refilled the goblet before handing out more to the other men.

When they were all seated, the bottles of wine on a small table before them, and eating from a platter of delicate pastries so small that Porthos could eat each in one bite, they reviewed the day.

"She didn't seem surprised to see us," Porthos noted as he scrutinised a different pastry before he popped it into his mouth. It looked lost in his hand.

"I am sure she had seen us arrive," Aramis declared.

"We've left her and Desmarais together," d'Artagnan's brow creased in concern. "Is he safe or will she have dispatched him and run before we go down to dinner?"

"He's safe enough for now," Aramis responded confidently. "She is too inquisitive and wants to know why we are here." He looked directly at Athos. " _I_ will see her after dinner this evening and inform her that the Queen has rescinded her order. What she chooses to do then is up to her but I think it advisable that we devise every means possible to limit your contact with her."

"Thank you," Athos said softly.

"I know you're tired from the journey. Why don't you rest here and we could ask for food to be sent up? That way you would not need to be in the same room as her," d'Artagnan suggested.

"I thank you for your concern but I will be fine. After all, they do say that there is safety in numbers," Athos managed a wan smile. "Knowing her, she would make some excuse to leave the table and make her way to my room."

"Granted," Aramis agreed. "She might yet do that. I suggest that you spend the night in here with me. She won't be able to find you unless she tries all the rooms in turn."

"You're wantin' him to forsake a good bed for a hard couch," Porthos grumbled, fidgeting on his seat which was, without doubt, distinctly uncomfortable.

"I wasn't suggesting anything of the sort," Aramis objected. He glanced over his shoulder to the large, four-poster bed that was the dominant piece of furniture in the room. "Bed's big enough." He clapped Athos on the shoulder. "We've done it before; it will be just like old times."

III

"Well?" Desmarais rounded on Benoit as soon as the Duchess had taken her leave and swept from the room, announcing that she needed the remaining time to make herself 'look presentable' for such exalted company.

"Well what?" Benoit could not fathom what he was bring asked.

"The surly fellow. The secretary. Do you recognise him or not?"

"There is something very familiar about him but I still can't place him." He broke off as Desmarais emitted a loud sigh of frustration.

"Besides the Minister, the others are paying him very little attention."

"Well, they're playing a part, aren't they? They are not supposed to know him as he's the Minister's secretary but it was all very cosy when he and the Minister were sparring at the garrison. I tell you this, for someone who has a 'rudimentary knowledge' of how to use a sword, I'd hate to see him in action when he's had some training! That was beginner who knows enough not to stab himself with the sharp end. He is a skilled swordsman and has a talent such as I have never seen before. It was beautiful to watch and terrifying at the same time."

Desmarais grunted in frustration. "When you've finished singing his praises, perhaps you can come up with a suitable notion as to why they're all lying then. If he is the last member of the group, why would the former Captain, this damned Athos of the King's musketeers be here in my chateau pretending to be some pen pushing secretary?"

There was something in the way Desmarais spat out the man's name that caught Benoit's attention." What did you say?"

Desmarais was bemused. "I was talking about the former Captain and wondering why he should be pretending to be a secretary."

"No," Benoit persisted. "What did you call him?"

The Baron thought for a minute and then, with an ugly laugh, he repeated the epithet. "Damned Athos!"

Benoit repeatedly muttered the name, his eyes searching the room as if he half expected to find the answer painted on the walls, etched into the stonework above the fireplace or stitched into the upholstery.

"DamnedAthos," he said, deliberately running the words together.

"What are you talking about?" Desmarais demanded. "Where are you going?" he shouted, for Benoit was heading purposefully towards the door.

The man turned and continued talking, even as he walked backwards. "I've had an idea. I am going into the village to check on something but I'll be back as soon as I can."

"The whole place is going mad," Desmarais complained to an empty room.

IV

Dusk was falling when Benoit tethered his horse to a tree outside the patch of poor land that served as the village cemetery. There was still enough light for what he needed though.

Many graves in the cemetery were marked by crude wooden crosses with names lovingly carved into the wooden crosspiece by grieving loved ones who wished they could have procured a more fitting marker but, just occasionally, there were others that were finer and longer lasting. It was one of the latter that he sought. He had heard about it from inadvertently overhearing village gossip in the inn one night and he concentrated on recalling the words of the tenants: about how there had been "no expense spared"; "never stayed to see it put up, he didn't. He just gave the order, paid for it and then he disappeared"; "fine piece of stone, that is"; "out of his mind with grief, old John said. 'E sat with 'im three days when he tried to kill 'imself with the demon drink. Fair tore the place apart, he did"; "reckon 'e ended up drownded in the river. He's never been seen since."

Although he hadn't paid them that much attention at the time, he knew the sudden disappearance of the owner of a smallholding had given rise to much speculation.

Circling the older graves, he headed to the far corner to where the more recent dead had been laid to rest. There was only one marker of stone and he crouched before it to read the etched words. There was no sentimentality, just stark details, including the date of death. The date was that of the uprising of the villagers.

Benoit nodded in satisfaction as he rocked back on his heels.

"Got you," he whispered, a smile forming on his lips. Extending a hand, he let his fingers trace over the deep lettering.

" _Sylvie d'Athos and her son, Raoul_."


	30. Chapter 30

_**Dear all, best intentions for the last chapter were thwarted by the FF site! Stayed writing until I had to shoot off for rehearsal because I wanted to share a pre-birthday chapter with you (hence, in my haste, all the errors and lack of clarity about whether Aramis or Athos was speaking at one point! Apologies for all the ones that might be here too. Shouldn't do this in haste!) Uploaded it, I got the confirmation that it was loaded – and then it didn't appear for a very long time. Thank you to those who also let me know. Fortunately, it didn't stop loads of people reading it.**_

 _ **And how did I spend my birthday yesterday? Taking 36 students, 14-16 years of age, to the theatre to see an evening production of a stage version of 'Jekyll and Hyde'; not quite the extended celebrations of last year! It was only on at our theatre for the one night!**_

 _ **Anyway, now Benoit has identified who Athos is but what happens next? Two chapters in 49 hours! Please don't expect it to become a regular thing - even though I would love it to be possible. This chapter has been brewing in my head for a long time and just fell into place.**_

Chapter 30

Auguste Desmarais was having a miserable time. His plans for a romantic dinner for two, during which he would woo the ravishing Duchess of Bedford with the ultimate intention of parting her from her massive inheritance, had been thwarted by the arrival of the First Minister and his friends. And how could he forget the worrying presence of the so-called secretary who sat impassively and saying little?

Why did he strike Benoit as familiar? If he were the fourth musketeer, then where or how could Benoit have encountered him? Why would he be assuming a false identity and name? It could only be that he knew something about Desmarais' dealings with the Spanish – but how?

The Baron could think of no other logical reason that the party should arrive – ostensibly unannounced – and demand to see his accounts. Thank goodness anything pertinent to his transactions with the enemy were secured elsewhere beyond the chateau. Initially, he had not wanted to commit anything to paper but an early 'misunderstanding' with the Spanish agents had left him paying beyond what was originally agreed and he would not fall foul to that mistake again and so he set down everything in carefully maintained documents, detailed and dated.

He had frightened his head cook into an alcohol-sodden stupor when he first demanded what amounted to a banquet for six people at short notice. Buckets of bone-chilling water had been needed to restore some level of sobriety, enough for the individual concerned to bark out demands to the rest of the kitchen staff that far surpassed any act of delegation he had managed in the past.

Somehow, Desmarais' instructions had been followed to the letter and a simple but generous fare had been supplied and spread across six courses with wine and brandy flowing generously. He sat in his place at the head of the table and surveyed his guests. The Duchess was to his right on Aramis' insistence, content as he was to sit on Desmarais' left, despite being the most powerful man in France. Porthos sat next to Milady, for a General outranked a Captain so d'Artagnan was opposite him. He had wanted to seat Athos as far away as possible, so unnerved was he by the man, but he settled for putting him next to the Musketeer Captain.

With the absence of other diners, etiquette should have put him next to Porthos but the Baron was making a silent protest about his presence, something that had not gone unnoticed by everyone there. Unfortunately for Desmarais, this decision had only created another problem for, without his knowledge, it had placed the erstwhile husband and wife diagonally opposite from each other.

Not only was the Baron subjected to the continued flirtation between the First Minister and the Duchess, but he had to face the fact that he could not compete with the man's easy charm, tales of life experiences – added to by the other two soldiers – and his witty exchanges. All combined to make Desmarais feel totally inferior and inadequate and he did not like not being master at his own table.

Then he saw the surreptitious glances between the Duchess and Secretary Allard so that he resolved to watch them more closely. Surely there could be no interest in her part for a mere man of letters! But there it was again, that sideways scrutiny from beneath those dark lashes; her concentration was far from being focused on the Minister as he regaled them with another amusing tale based on life at court. Desmarais only gave it half an ear and vaguely knew that it had something to do with a Swedish emissary who had somehow been locked in a cupboard because of a misunderstanding. Instead, he studied the melancholic man in the farthest seat.

For much of the meal, Allard had said little and eaten less, pushing the food about the plate in vain pretence until a servant removed it and brought a fresh plate for the next course. He stared a lot at the table top and, when he did deign to pay any attention to what was being said, he carefully looked at any speaker, except the Duchess. He watched her only when he thought she was gazing anywhere but at him, and Desmarais tried to read the expression in the man's eyes but gave up in frustration. There were moments when the two mistimed their confusing behaviour so that there was an instant of eye contact, which both broke immediately and distractedly.

Not knowing what to make of such events, he presumed to believe that he had not one, but two potential rivals for the hand of the widowed Duchess for, reluctantly, he had to admit that the morose secretary was more handsome than he was, although what Ann found interesting in him, he could not say. Perhaps she was drawn to the mysterious, silent types for he could hardly describe the man as strong but then again …

He looked more closely at the man's posture as he sat in his chair and realised that appearances could be misleading. Straight-backed, Allard was narrow shouldered but the close fit of the rich coloured doublet across his chest and down his arms hinted at a concealed and restrained power. The slight tilt of the head suggested that the man was listening to every single word that was uttered and that there was a deceptive alertness about him.

Desmarais shook his head to dismiss his thoughts and tried to redirect the conversation by initiating a topic of his own choosing.

"I don't think I explained to you, my dear," he began, reaching across the table and covering her hand with his own, "why the Captain has come to visit."

"No, you didn't," she said, trying to smile and gauging how long she could tactfully leave her hand in place before withdrawing it. Why did the insufferable man feel that it was necessary to repeatedly touch her every time he addressed her?

"He is taking very seriously recent problems that I have had to deal with in the area. If only many more of the upper echelons of society knew how interested the Captain of the Musketeers is in our safety. His men, some of whom have already collected prisoners from here to return to Paris, must be applauded for their commitment and diligence in the welfare of those of us who live in positions of responsibility."

Feigned shock gave Milady the opportunity she sought and, pulling her hand free, she raised it to her breast in horror as she gasped, but her movement only served to draw his attention from her green eyes to the expanse of plunging décolletage she was displaying and he developed an instant fascination for her smooth, milk-white skin.

"Captain, you must be commended upon your concern," she said. She glanced back to the Baron. "But whatever happened, Auguste?"

"Oh, nothing that need worry you, my dear. Some …" and he waved a hand disparagingly as he struggled for the appropriate vocabulary, "peasants took exception to the increased taxes posed by the Minister and his council. There was a spot of bother but my men dealt with it quickly and efficiently." He was so intent upon gazing at and reassuring her that he missed the fleeting exchange between Aramis and Porthos.

D'Artagnan had felt Athos stiffen beside him as the Baron spoke so lightly and dismissively of the event that had cost him his family and, from the corner of his eye, Aramis saw the Captain lay a comforting and staying hand on Athos' arm beneath the table.

"We need not trouble the Duchess with any more details," Aramis said. He fixed her with his eyes, flashing a warning that she was not to pursue the matter any further and, to his relief, she followed his lead and immediately asked Desmarais an innocuous question about riding on his land for she would like to see more of the estate the following morning.

Distracted, the Baron launched into an account of the more scenic spots and appropriate trails on estate and offered to be her guide.

"Do remember that you will be providing us access to your books tomorrow," Aramis reminded him.

The man became all bluster. "Oh, I had not realised that you wanted to get such an early start on those, I thought that we might -"

"I do have more places to visit, Baron and I do not want to outstay my welcome," Aramis looked about the table and the two soldiers concurred with murmurs and nodding heads.

"It is no trouble, Minister. I thought you might welcome the change of air and scenery after Paris," Desmarais was desperate to extend the stay so that there was time for the Spanish to arrive and the meddlesome guests could be handed over to them. "A more sociable ride might be just what you need."

Aramis seemed to ponder the suggestion. "Perhaps you are right; I may yet reconsider. As we approached the estate, I could not help but note the beauty of the countryside." Desmarais started to visibly relax. "But I would still like to see the books in the morning. I saw your study as we were escorted upstairs. Emil and I will be in there at nine in the morning. If you would be so good as to make your books available for then, we can begin. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish and, who knows, we may be able to go out for a ride in the afternoon."

"And what about you two?" Desmarais said, his voice rising as he looked first at Porthos and then at d'Artagnan.

"We'll just go out for a ride on our own," Porthos declared. "It'll give the horses some gentle exercise after today and we can see what there is on the estate, where the village is, what the people do there – just get a feel for the place. Besides," and here he grinned broadly at the Baron, "d'Artagnan and I would not want to spoil your excursion with the Duchess. We've intruded enough already."

He ignored the kick under the table that Milady attempted to launch his way but her legs were not long enough.

The rest of the evening passed with Desmarais feeling a little mollified that he could spend the morning alone with the Duchess and not be hampered by having to entertain his other guests, especially when he knew there was nothing questionable to be found in his accounting. Let the Minister and his lackey* search all they wanted; they would find nothing out of the ordinary in his books. That being said, it would hasten their possible departure but he would face that problem when it arose; right now, all he could think of was the beautiful Duchess.

It was not late when the members of the group excused themselves and made to retire, having had long journeys that day. Aramis tried to insist that Athos share his room but the opposition to the suggestion was accompanied by an exhausted stubbornness and so the four bade each other goodnight and entered their respective rooms.

Minutes later, three doors opened and the rooms' occupants reappeared. Pistol in hand, d'Artagnan nodded affirmatively in the direction of his friends to assure them of his role. Pausing to stare curiously at a marble statue of something resembling a faun with an extended belly, he took up his position half hidden behind it so that the door to his servants' quarters were within sight. Aramis inclined his head and Porthos followed him to the end of the hall-way and around the corner so that their whispered exchange might not be heard by Athos.

"Perhaps it's for the best, 'im insistin' on bein' in his own bed. This might have been a bit difficult," Porthos said grimly.

Aramis shook his head. "I'd already said that I would speak to her first and I mean to do just that."

"You really think she'll come this way tonight to find'im?"

"She wants to know why we are here so I think she will be determined to speak to at least one of us and the way she kept looking at him at dinner, I suspect she's got a lot more personal questions to put his way too," Aramis replied. "You wait back around there and watch his door. She can't get past both you and d'Artagnan, but given his obstinacy, I wouldn't put it past him to go for a nocturnal wandering of his own."

"To see her, you mean?"

Aramis nodded and indicated a place the other side of the head of the stairs. "There is an alcove just over there which is where I shall be. I think her room is down that way. I shall intercept her."

They moved to their respective positions and silence fell throughout the chateau. A few sconces bore lit torches so that there was not total darkness but there were still long shadows and niches where no light from either torch or the full moon through the windows managed to penetrate.

Time seemed to move excruciatingly slowly, although barely forty minutes had passed by when a soft click announced that another door, somewhere nearby, had been opened. Aramis held his breath as a figure in a flowing gown made her way towards him without any sound.

She was about to pass him when one hand snaked around her head to cover her mouth, suppressing any cry she might give, whilst another firm grip pulled her into the recess.

"Isn't it a bit late for a night-time walk?" he whispered, ignoring the point of the small dagger that, even now, threatened to pierce between his ribs. Oh but she was good. She visibly relaxed when she recognised his voice, lowered the dagger and turned to face him.

"What do you think you're doing?" she whispered back, her tone furious at being apprehended in this manner.

"Waiting for you. I assumed you would be wanting to have a little talk. If not, I certainly have a message for you."

She looked about her, fearful that they would be detected. "Not here. Back in my room," and she set off at once with him following, neither making a single sound.

"I presume the message is from Athos," she stated as she busied herself lighting a few more candles in her room.

Aramis closed the door very carefully. "No, actually. It's from the Queen."

She froze just for a moment and extinguished the taper before she turned to face him. "I don't know what you mean."

"Let's not play games. You are in the Queen's employment and she sent you here to assassinate Desmarais."

"I suppose you two lovebirds continue to tell each other everything?" She sank into one chair next to the open fire with its dying embers and indicated to him to take the seat opposite.

"No, we don't," he said, settling and stretching out his legs before him. "In fact, I have only just found out about your job. I won't ask you how long you've worked for her or what she has had you to do in the past –"

"Good, because I would not tell you," she cut in.

"The important thing for you to know is that she has rescinded that order."

Milady's brow furrowed and her features darkened. "Why so?"

"Her Majesty was not fully conversant with all the facts and gave you the order in haste."

"And am I to know of these additional facts?" Milady asked, rising to cross to a table where she began to poured two goblets of wine.

Aramis hesitated. Did she need to know why they were there? "We have received information that Desmarais is a traitor, in league with the Spanish. We're here to find the proof."

She turned to look at him, a goblet in each hand. "And where did you get this information? How reliable is it?"

"Very reliable. From my intelligencer in this region and agents further north." He was not about to divulge to her Athos' part in this.

"If he's a traitor, why not let me do my job and his treachery ends here?"

Aramis shook his head. "We want to see the extent of his betrayal and take him back to Paris for trial and punishment." He took the goblet she offered and sipped at its contents.

"And that's it?" She stood looking down at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Are there no other trustworthy people in Paris to weed out the traitors? What is so special about this one that the famous four reunite after goodness knows how long and ride across country to some minor noble's estate because he has been a bad boy?" Her tone was scathing but he ignored that. "What is it? Are you tried of the claustrophobic atmosphere of the court? Is Porthos done with decimating the Spanish singlehanded and what of d'Artagnan? I'm surprised the dear Constance lets him out of her sight. After all, it took her long enough to catch that particular fish." She crossed back to her seat, put down her drink on a small side table and continued to stand, watching his every reaction.

"This is important," he began slowly, refusing to respond to her goading and setting down his own goblet.

"It must be to drag _him_ from her bed," she spat out with an embittered laugh. There was no misunderstanding as to whom she referred. "Or has he got fed up with a life of domesticity? More like she grew tired of Monsieur Moody and kicked him out!"

In an instant, Aramis was on his feet and directly in front of her, noting, with some satisfaction, that she recoiled slightly from his intimidating move. He could fully appreciate why Athos reacted the way he did whenever she was near.

"You have a spiteful, wicked tongue, Milady, especially when _you_ are not in possession of all the facts." His voice was low and menacing; the light-hearted flirt had suddenly been replaced by someone far more dangerous.

"Then why don't you enlighten me?" she challenged, caught between him and the chair.

"Remember that little 'spot of bother' Desmarais mentioned earlier?" He waited until she had nodded. "Well, it led to the deaths of a number of villagers."

Confusion clouded her features.

"Including Sylvie and Raoul."

If Aramis expected some sort of reaction from her, it was nothing compared to the one he got. Colour drained from her face, her eyes widened in shock and she all but collapsed down onto the seat. Worried, he crouched in front of her and held the goblet to her lips, hoping to revive her.

"She bore him a son?" Her words were borne on a soft breath and her green eyes filled with tears.

Aramis immediately berated himself for it was painfully obvious she had not known about the child. "Yes, a few months after they left Paris. He bought a smallholding near here and this is where they settled."

But she was paying no attention to him. Her ragged breathing and devastated expression indicated that she was caught up in memories of her own and he was uncharacteristically helpless in the face of such agony.

Trying to compose herself, she caught his hand in hers and dared to look him in the eyes as she began her faltering tale, and he listened, spellbound at her words and hardly crediting that she would be so open with him. He had never seen her so vulnerable, so broken.

"In the heady, early days of our marriage, we talked of children often. It was the obvious extension of the love we had for each other. Of course, Athos wanted sons; he had to have an heir to the de la Fère title. But he would laugh and say he did not mind – sons, daughters – all he wanted was many of them. He had wanted more siblings that just his brother. He said the chateau walls should ring with the sound of children's laughter and I laughed too when I saw him so excited."

Aramis was having a hard time visualising this side of his friend and especially with this woman.

"He said I could name them all, save for the firstborn son. He was adamant about that; the child would be called Raoul, after his uncle.** He was close to the man, an officer in the army who perished at sea." At the memory, a lone tear tracked its way down her cheek and Aramis succumbed to the urge to brush it away with his finger.

"Athos spoke of him," he said softly.

"I'm surprised he shared that with you," she wondered.

Aramis gave a low chuckle. "Oh he didn't tell Porthos and me willingly. It was to pass the time on board ship as we sailed from La Rochelle."

Now it was her time to give a small smile. "Athos, ships and water do not make for a very good combination."

"No they don't," he admitted, "as we discovered." He grew serious. "Leave him be, Ann. He is not in a good place right now; it is too recent and too raw. If you meddle with him or hurt him in any way, you will have to answer to the rest of us."

She knew he meant every word he said and there was no way she could stand against the three of them; she had not missed that he called her by name for he had never done that before. Everything made sense at last. Yes, they wanted the Baron for his crimes against France but it also meant much more, went much deeper and was far more personal. No wonder the four brothers were together again.

"Desmarais' had a part in this?"

Aramis nodded. "It was his order and his men." He did not need to tell her that the men responsible were already dead.

"How did they die, her and the child?" Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"We have no idea. It was enough that he could bring himself to say that they had been killed. He will not speak of the exact circumstances, not yet. I cannot conceive of the horror that he locks away inside of him."

Milady had not liked Sylvie, was even jealous of her when it became clear that Athos had moved on and given his heart to another. If truth were told, Ann had never thought it possible, had hoped that he could never find true love again, but it seemed that he had and now even that had been destroyed. She had not expected to, but she hurt and grieved for him; not so much, perhaps for the loss of Sylvie, but definitely for the death of his son, for she knew how much that child meant to him.

So, now, did Aramis. Children had never come up in conversation, except when he spoke of his own pain at not being able to publicly recognise the once Dauphin – now King – as his own, but at least the boy lived. Athos had been so hell-bent on self-destruction for many years when he thought of the past that he had given up on love, the hope for a future and had certainly never spoken of the desire for a family, of a son to continue the family line. No wonder he had given up the title and estate for he had no need for it, not when he had condemned his wife and all that reminded him of a happier life. He had obviously given up all hope of a son so now, with little Raoul's death, here was another crushing blow for Athos, and Aramis, at last, understood a little better this side of his dear friend that he had never known about.

There was a pressure on his hand as Milady squeezed his fingers, gaining his attention.

"I may not have liked her or what she meant to him, but she gave him what I did not and I know how important this was to him. For all that we have been to each other, and done to each other, I would not wish this upon him." She searched Aramis' face for understanding. "Please, let me help."

 _ *** From middle-French 1520-30 = laquais**_

 _ **** For the story of Athos' Uncle Raoul and his own dislike of ships, please read 'Retribution', if you have not already done so.**_


	31. Chapter 31

_**Dear all, a long-ish chapter for your patience. Thank you for all the lovely comments on the previous chapter. Apologies if any errors have crept through.**_

CHAPTER 31

I

Desmarais was a little aggrieved that he was the last to the dining room to break his fast and discovered his guests already gathered, patiently waiting. He had been remiss in his duty as a host but he had not slept well, tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning when he eventually slid into an exhausted sleep, hence his failure to rise so easily at his normal time.

His mind had been racing, denying him his rest as he mulled over strategies as to how he could win the hand of the Duchess and quickly. He had to keep the First Minister and his secretary at bay because he had a dire need for her money; the fact that she was so pleasing on the eye and could, in time, be a wonderful companion was an unexpected bonus. Reluctantly, he resorted to a string of effusive apologies, the majority of which were for the benefit of the Duchess and First Minister.

Then there were the other irritations and questions surrounding Allard and his real identity. What did he want? What did any of the Paris party want? Were they suspicious of his involvement with the Spanish? He wanted them gone, the worry erased, but he had to keep them at the chateau until the Spanish arrived, when he could hand them over and let them become someone else's concern. He needed them to strengthen his hand with the Spanish for he was embroiled in a game that was turning sour and dangerous with each passing week. There was no point in regretting that he had embarked upon this particular path; it had been done with the best of intentions in mind – namely, to keep him and his land safe. He was in too deep and there was no turning back but he would do all he could to maintain his safety; all others were expendable to achieve that end.

Aramis dismissed Desmarais' words with a wave of the hand. "No apology is needed, Baron. It can happen to the best of us and we have not been here long."

As they began to eat from the laden platters set in the middle of the table, Desmarais, not usually known for his sensitivity, could not help but feel the tension in the room and he warily eyed those assembled. What had happened? Had they all found reason to turn against him overnight?

"I hope you all slept well," he began breezily.

He was met by a plethora of half-finished sentences or over-enthusiastic assertions but, as he looked at them, not one appeared to have had a good night's rest.

He could not know that Aramis had been in the Duchess' chamber, any romance furthest from their minds, as they talked long into the night about him and his treachery; how, when the ex-Musketeer had finally returned to his room, Ann had spent the rest of the dark hours thinking of her husband, what had brought them to this point, the child Raoul and what she had made of her life in general.

He would not have known that when Aramis returned to his room, he found his three friends ensconced there; Porthos standing, scowling, just inside the door as if on guard. D'Artagnan sat edgily on a chair, urging Athos to be still. He, for his part, paced the room, running a hand distractedly through his shortened locks, his features dark and unsettled. All three surrounded Aramis as he appeared and it was some time before he had encouraged them to sit, wine goblets filled, and recounted much of the conversation that had passed with Milady.

"Why's she so eager to help us?" Porthos growled.

Aramis hesitated for he dared not divulge in front of Athos what he had learned from her about the significance of a son; that was far too personal, although he was keen to tell his other brothers at the first available opportunity.

"She has been denied fulfilling her mission. I have assured her that she would be paid from the royal coffers regardless but I think she wants to see some action still and," he attempted a cheeky grin to dispel the apprehension, "I believe she's missed us!"

Porthos slapped him on the arm playfully even as he surveyed the group.

"So how is it that I find the three of you together in here?" he asked. "Two of you were supposed to be on guard in the corridor."

D'Artagnan gave a sheepish shrug. "It was warmer to wait for you in here. We were anxious to know how your little meeting with Milady had gone."

Porthos gave a snort. "You were guarding Milady so we knew she wouldn't be headin' this way, so we were left with guardin' 'im," and he nodded towards Athos, who simply glared in response.

Aramis shook his head. "Don't tell me you were thinking of making a night time visit, Athos? I said I would meet with her first."

Athos refused to make eye-contact with any of them.

"So we decided to wait for you all together," d'Artagnan finished.

They continued talking and planning until fingers of grey light began to spread across the sky when they disbanded and went back to their own rooms, just in case Desmarais sent servants to wake them, provide hot water for their ablutions and offer to help with dressing as position demanded.

Now they were at breakfast, tired and with conversation muted, but knowing exactly what their roles for the day entailed.

II

Porthos and d'Artagnan set off immediately after breakfast, eager to be on the road and appreciative of the fresh air.

"That's blown away the cobwebs," Porthos noted in satisfaction when they had ridden their mounts at a gentle canter for a few minutes and then eased back into a walk. "The atmosphere back there is not all fun an' laughter."

D'Artagnan pulled a face. "Hardly surprising when we four are looking for evidence against Desmarais, he's concerned because he's not sure why we're there and he's worrying about whether or not he ought to be worried; any fool can see he's after Milady and, this morning, he seems wary of Aramis and Athos for some reason; she's probably put out because we won't let her just kill Desmarais and she hasn't had a chance to speak to Athos alone yet and Athos …..?" He didn't know how to finish the sentence so Porthos did it for him.

"He's just poor old Athos, tryin' his hardest to get through the next day. As if that wasn't enough, now 'e has her thrown into the mix."

"No wonder the meal just now was a little tense," d'Artagnan agreed.

Porthos shook his head in an attempt to dispel memories of an unhappy breakfast; even the food had come out in sympathy and seemed tasteless to his palate. "How we goin' to play this then?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Just carry on as we said. Visit the village, talk to the locals, get their view on the increased taxes and their feelings on the recent unrest."

They rode on in silence for a little while.

"You reckon we might find out what happened to Sylvie and Raoul?" Porthos suddenly asked.

D'Artagnan reined in his horse and sat in the saddle contemplating what Porthos had just said. The big man had ridden on some way before he realised he was alone. Turning his horse sideways on to the track they were following, he waited for a response from the Captain.

"I don't want to go out of my way to pursue that line of questioning. After all, how would we explain our interest in two specific people? We're here for the first time so we are not supposed to know anyone here and Athos is keeping a low profile so that he cannot be recognised by the villagers. If they volunteer that information, I shall not deter them but I would prefer to hear it from him."

"An' you think he's goin' to do that? Just tell us one day?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "I don't know; I hope he reaches that point where he tells at least one of us…."

"Maybe Aramis?"

"Maybe. I'm certainly not expecting him to sit there and suddenly blurt it out when the four of us are together. It's not exactly the sort of thing you lightly drop into conversation and I can't help wondering if I have some kind of macabre interest in what actually happened that day, but I also think it's all part of his healing process, facing what happened."

They rode on in silence, each contemplating the level of suffering their brother must be experiencing and wondering what they could do as individuals to help him survive the process. It was at least ten minutes before Porthos was the first to speak as the outlying cottages of the village came into view.

"How d'you want to do this?"

"I'm not wanting to start knocking on doors unless it is absolutely necessary. I suggest we talk to those folk we see out and about; it might encourage others to come and speak to us," d'Artagnan said.

Something warned him that it was not going to be an easy task as they continued down what passed as the main - and probably only – street in the village. A few people were about their daily business but as the two strangers mounted on powerful beasts passed by them, they stopped what they were doing to stare after the newcomers, an air of hostility becoming quickly pervasive. As word spread, more villagers appeared in their doorways, mainly women with children hiding behind their skirts. All stood glowering at the two soldiers. At length, three men, armed only with farming implements, barred their path.

"Can we help you gentlemen?" the middle of the three challenged.

"We hope so," d'Artagnan said lightly and smiling as he attempted to diffuse the attempted intimidation that rolled towards him in waves. "I am Captain d'Artagnan of the people's Musketeers and this is General Porthos du Vallon. May we dismount?" He deliberately waited for an invitation rather than appear threatening.

The man ignored the request and refrained from introducing himself. "And what might two high rankin' officers be doin' payin' us a visit?"

"We have heard of the recent unrest and would hear your side of events," the Captain explained.

Immediately, there were alarmed gasps from the womenfolk who grabbed at any children who might have let curiosity get the better of them and used their own bodies as a protective shield as they retreated from the men who inched forward malevolently.

The first man spat into the dirt by his feet whilst the two who flanked him had not moved a muscle. "You mean the Baron has sent for you to do his dirty work and bring us even lower than we already are."

"No, no," d'Artagnan said hastily. Swinging his leg over the saddle, he quickly dismounted anyway and just as quickly raised his hands so that they were visibly well clear of his weapons belt. "We are not here to do anything but talk, I assure you."

"Yes, talk us into parting with more money that we haven't got," the man responded, his voice vitriolic and his dark, angry eyes sweeping the group of men who had gradually been gathering around him, strengthened by their nods of support. "And what happens when we don't meet your new demands? Are you goin' to kill some more of us?"

Up until now, Porthos had stayed quiet but vigilant, his hands hovering above his pistols safely stowed in their saddle holsters. "We're not 'ere from the Baron to make any demands an' we're not 'ere for your money. We heard there'd been trouble but that was only one side of the story an' we've come all the way from Paris to hear the other side from you."

At the gravity in his tone, the men began to waver but their spokesman quickly recovered. "So who told you about what's been happening here?" he demanded.

"Baron Desmarais was the first who ….." but d'Artgagnan's words were drowned out by a barrage of raised voices, some complaints clearer than others.

"Of course he'd have his say first!"

"What lies 'as he been spreadin'?"

"You won't believe what we have to say!"

"Why don't you try us?" Porthos growled.

"And why should we listen to anyone who comes from Paris? It's the likes of you and your demands that started this all off anyway," an elderly man shouted from the back and others rapidly agreed.

"The First Minister has come in person to find out what ….." Again d'Artagnan was drowned out.

"Enough!" Porthos roared and silence abruptly descended as the villagers eyed him warily. "If people don't start listenin', this is goin' to get us nowhere."

"The Minister is the one responsible for the tax increases," one man said, his attire suggesting that he might be the village blacksmith.

"For one, yes," d'Artagnan agreed, "to fund the war effort against Spain but no more. The Minister and the council approved the increase, _one_ increase." He watched the reaction to his words.

"So where's the First Minister right now?" a woman cried from the right. Finding courage in her frustration, she moved forward and the men parted to give her access. She halted a few feet from d'Artagnan. "Why hasn't he come to speak to us himself if he wants to know the truth."

"Because he's at the chateau doin' other things," Porthos began.

"I bet he is," declared the spokesman, again looking around for support and finding it. "He's not wanting to get his hands dirty doin' this work himself when he can get others to do it for him. Besides, he's probably making great friends with the Baron."

"Nothing is further from the truth,"d'Artagnan insisted. "He is pursuing his own line of inquiry; he means to get to the bottom of this but to do that, he needs to know details from you so we are here to gather your evidence."

"An' why should someone so high an' mighty as the Minister trust that to a couple of soldiers, even if they 'ave some sort of a rank?" This was from a disembodied voice in the throng.

Porthos sighed. "Because the Minister was a soldier. We all served together as the King's Musketeers an' we've fought beside each other more times than I'd like to remember. That's why he trusts us to find out what there is to know."

His unexpected candour was met by more silence and his fist clenched in a vain effort not to reach for his weapons in warning.

"Who do you want to speak to then?" the spokesman asked, suspicion remaining in his voice.

"Anyone who wants to speak to us," d'Artagnan reassured him. "Everyone who wishes will be heard, we promise you. It does not matter how long it takes. This is important to us."

"Then you reckon Desmarais is up to no good?" someone else shouted out, their words met by a disenchanted murmur that swept through those standing there.

"We don't know for certain; like we said, we're makin' inquiries," Porthos said, unwilling to admit just how much they suspected the Baron. "We need to get to the bottom of the tax increases for a start."

"Why don't we begin with you?" d'Artagnan suggested, taking a step closer to the man who spoke as their leader. "Is there somewhere we can go that is convenient to all?"

The man nodded. "We have a room along there that we use as a drinking and gathering place. It's only temporary, mind, after the Baron's men set fire to our meeting place, but we decided that we had to have somewhere. Jacques will look after your horses."

As he spoke, a young man stepped forward and held out a hand to take the reins of the animals.

D'Artagnan looked back briefly at Porthos who was in the process of dismounting. "That sounds fine to us. Please, lead the way."

The man paused to look at one of the women. "Marie, we would appreciate some refreshments." He watched her as she immediately turned and headed in the direction of the nearest cottage, three other women following in her wake to offer their assistance. "My wife," he added by way of explanation. "I am Bevard, Henri Bevard."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, _Monsieur_ Bevard," d'Artagnan smiled. "We will discuss how we are going to proceed when we are settled."

The animosity previously shown to the soldiers had begun to wane as the small crowd parted to allow them to pass through and go with Bevard to the designated low building. It was clear that there was now an acceptance – albeit reluctant - to the presence of D'Artagnan and Porthos in the hope that the grievances could safely be aired and addressed.

III

When Aramis entered the library, Athos was standing, staring distractedly out of a window. There was no reaction as the Minister joined him to see what had grabbed his attention.

The room, set at the back of the chateau, overlooked a large courtyard bordered on three sides by outbuildings that included the stable block. Grooms waited patiently beside two saddled mounts, their backs straightening as someone approached. Desmarais and Milady crossed into view, exchanged some words with the men and then prepared to mount. She hesitated and seemed to ask something and Desmarais, a broad smile breaking his features, moved to her side and bent, preparing to hoist her into her saddle.

Athos sighed and Aramis shot him a sideways glance but knew better than to ask; no doubt some memory was stirring in his head.

The First Minister turned, surveyed the room and the desk and cleared his throat. "I see Desmarais has left the books out in readiness for us. We had best begin our work." He picked up a leather-bound volume and moved to a comfortable chair, supporting the book in his lap as he settled to read.

There was no movement from Athos as he continued to watch the couple preparing to go for their planned morning ride. As she steadied her mount that was eager for the off, Milady happened to look back at the chateau and saw Athos standing at the window. She half-raised her hand in his direction but changed her mind, the expression on her face confusing him. If he had not known better, there was an air of sadness about her.

With another sigh, he sat at the desk and pulled an account book towards him, silence filling the room as the pair of them concentrated on the task in hand, the only sound being the occasional turning of a page and the scratch of quill on paper as Athos made a note or recalculated some figures.

An interminable amount of time passed before Aramis could not resist speaking. "You are very quiet."

Athos did not stop what he was doing, nor did he look up. "I thought we were focusing on what we were doing."

"We are, but you are quiet anyway." He faltered. "I presume that it is pointless my asking how you are today for you will only declare that you are fine."

"You presume correctly," and Athos turned another page.

Aramis waited a little longer. "Athos, I know that -"

"No, Aramis; this is not open for discussion. If it appeases you in the slightest, I will concede that, whilst fine physically, I am not fine with the current situation but as there is nothing you nor I can do about it, then there is little purpose in pursuing the subject," and he continued to focus his attention on the next book of accounts.

Aramis knew that he had to give up, had to be satisfied with his reply; at least Athos was acknowledging that all was not well. They worked on, occasionally asking each other to check the details of what they had been reading.

"You were with her for some time last night," Athos suddenly said.

Aramis could not decide whether there was a note of accusation. "We were talking."

Atho's head shot up. "I was not suggesting otherwise," he hastily added. "I was merely wondering what you found to talk about at length."

Aramis left his chair and came around the desk to lean against its edge next to where Athos was seated. "I went to tell her that the Queen had revoked the order for the Baron's death and, understandably, Milady wanted to know why. Rest assured that I said nothing with regards to your role as Janus but I did tell her all that we knew or suspected." He took a deep breath. "And I told her of Sylvie and Raoul; I could not avoid it because of the questions she asked."

Athos' features metamorphosed from resignation to a guarded anger. "No doubt that gave her reason to gloat.

Aramis laid a hand lightly on his shoulder. "You do her an injustice," he said quietly. "She was greatly moved and," here he paused, "the significance of Raoul's name was not lost on her."

At this, Athos closed his eyes and bowed his head. "What else did she tell you?" he whispered.

Aramis squeezed the shoulder comfortingly beneath his hand. "Probably more than you would have me know but I am glad she did, my friend, if it helps me understand your pain a little more clearly."

There was no response from the stricken man and Aramis saw that he was working to maintain his composure.

"We have finished the wine we were brought. I shall see about getting us some more," the Minister offered and slipped out of the room, having the discretion to leave his brother to recover himself completely. One of Desmarais' servants had delivered a tray bearing a jug of wine and some things to eat shortly after they had retired to the library and whilst they had not consumed all the foodstuff, the wine had long since disappeared.

As he headed off in the direction of the kitchens in search of a servant, Aramis did not see or hear the return of the Baron and the Duchess, or their exultant voices from the bracing ride through the estate. Desmarais quickly slid from his saddle and helped his guest to dismount. He was just about to escort her back into the chateau when he felt a tug on his sleeve. Annoyed that someone would have the temerity to stop him when he was about his business, he swung round to deliver a tirade, only to find himself confronted by Benoit.

"I tried to see you last night," Benoit began.

"Yes and you would have interrupted dinner with my guests and pulled me away from entertaining them." Desmarais said angrily.

"Yes, and that is why I was here early this morning to see you but still you refused to see me," Benoit hissed in reply.

"Well as you can see, I had something far more pleasant to occupy me this morning other than listening to you," Desmarais retorted, a smile on his lips as he watched the retreating figure of the Duchess.

It was unfortunate that she had not lingered just a little, for then she would have found out something of great interest and importance to her and the men she knew.

"And while you have been 'entertaining' the Duchess and Minister, I have realised how I know his supposed secretary, Allard, and I tell you now, he is no more a secretary than you or me!"

Milady entered the chateau and made her way through its corridors, intending to return to her room and change from her riding garb. She intercepted a servant and requested some hot water to wash away the grime from the ride and, as she did so, she saw Aramis leave the room that she remembered housed the library. Watching him striding away from her, she also recalled that he and Athos intended to study Desmarais' accounts there during the morning. It was feasible that Athos was still there and she was immediately resolved as to her next course of action.

Aramis had not closed the door properly when he left the library and she stood looking through the doorway at the man who was still her husband. Ignorant of the fact that he was being watched, his guard was down and, as she tried to determine his mood, her breath caught as she saw the change time and tragedy had wrought in him. She remembered only too well his expressions on the numerous occasions when their paths had crossed in the years after he discovered that she had survived the hangman's noose and she knew exactly what to say to make him react in a negative way. If she could not rouse him to anger, she had the range of vitriolic remarks guaranteed to crush him, to drive the colour from his face and to fill his green eyes with a deep-seated misery. What she saw now was something completely different; he looked so vulnerable, so broken and so grieving - and it moved her.

"Have you found anything?" she asked softly, but even so, her voice made him visibly jump and, in that instant, she saw the inevitable wall swiftly resurrected.

"No," was all he said as he rose, crossed the room and made to walk past her out of the room.

"I wanted to speak to you," she entreated.

He halted level with her in the doorway. "I cannot do this right now, Anne. I am in no mood for your goading."

She laid a hand on his arm to keep him there with her. "Do you think so badly of me still? I have no intention of goading you. I wanted to say that I am sorry to hear what has happened. I can see how this is hurting you." She gazed up at him, her eyes fixed on his. "I really am so sorry. We will talk more later." On impulse, she stood on tiptoe, cupped a hand to one of his cheeks as she reached and kissed him on the other one; it was fleeting, gentle and sisterly.

It was not interpreted as such by the figure who lurked in the doorway to another room. He had heard nothing of the exchange but seen all as the pair broke apart and the sense of jealousy that been merely glowing embers the night before was fanned into an all-consuming flame, fuelled by the information he had just received.

Desmarais stepped completely into the corridor and glared at the semi-open library door.

"Enjoy your moment, _Mister_ Secretary Athos, or whatever you prefer to call yourself. Your days are numbered."


	32. Chapter 32

_**Dear all, making the most of a week's break and producing a second chapter in a couple of days! Making the most of the time as back to work next week, straight into mock exams and a 12-day turn around on 112 papers!**_

 _ **Thank you so much for the feedback on the last chapter. I love hearing from you all. Are we seeing a change in Milady and will it last, I wonder?**_

CHAPTER 32

I

Aramis immediately knew something had happened when he re-entered the library for Athos paced the room, hands clenched in fists as he made another circuit of the booklined walls.

"Wine will arrive shortly," he said lightly and frowning the next moment when his comment elicited no response. "What is wrong?"

"Wrong? This is wrong!" Athos snatched up an open account book as he strode past the desk and, holding it out in front of his friend, slammed it shut. "There is nothing wrong with any of these accounts! Nothing exists here to aid us in bringing him down."

"And you are surprised?" Aramis said as Athos moved again. "Neither of us expected there to be anything amiss, especially after he was so willing to give us access to his books. We just have to think about what we are going to do next."

"Meanwhile it adds to the time we have to stay here," Athos hissed in barely suppressed anger. "Making polite conversation across the dinner table while he sits there, a stupid expression on his face as he attempts to make unsubtle love to Ann and -"

"Is that what's bothering you?" Aramis interrupted.

"What?"

"Is that what lies behind this eruption? You do not like his attention to your wife?"

Athos' face darkened dangerously. "Do not push me, Aramis. Of course, I do not care that he flatters her and thinks he can win her over. There would have been a time for that once but no more. Anyone can see that he is only interested in the money that he thinks she has as the widow of an English aristocrat and she will let him behave that way, encourage him, play with him as a cat does a mouse, especially as we have thwarted her ultimate plan to finish him."

"She is helping us, Athos. If enduring his advances gives us the chance and opportunity to pursue our own investigations unimpeded, then that is good for us and she deserves our thanks."

Green eyes narrowed. "I see she has your unquestioned support."

"You forget I have much for which to thank her, not least my life." It was Aramis' turn to bridle at the other man's words.

Athos heard the tone and the fight drained from him in an instant. "My apologies. That comment was unnecessary."

"What has happened whilst I was seeing about the wine? Something has upset you and I do not believe it is merely the lack of evidence against Desmarais." Aramis stepped closer to the other man who stood, lost, in the centre of the room.

"Ann is back from her ride. She must have seen you leave the library for, in the next instant, she was in the doorway. I confess that she took me by surprise."

"What did she have to say for herself?" It was evident that whatever had been said had unnerved the former musketeer Captain and Aramis could not help but wonder if she had forgotten everything that he had said to her in the early hours and taken pleasure in provoking Athos.

"She said she was sorry." Athos looked up, surprise on his face and in his voice. "I could see that she was sincere in her condolence and she meant well. It was naught but a failing in me that I could not take it, not from her, not right now."

"Oh, Athos," Aramis sighed, unable to stop himself from reaching out and pulling the man into an embrace. He half expected Athos to pull away from him but, to his surprise, there was no resistance. Instead, arms came up around his own back in response and held him tightly in an uncharacteristic hug. They stood that way for several moments, another worrying testament to the man's current vulnerability.

"You _will_ get through this, my friend. I promise you, even if it does not appear like that at present. I do not know how long it will take but I am here for you every step of the way; we all are. And we _will_ get the proof we need against Desmarais. That may take time as well but we will be patient and we will see that Desmarais meets justice back in Paris."

Athos eased back and looked earnestly at his brother, holding him at arm's length. "Thank you; I depend upon you for keeping me grounded."

"Always, brother; always."

This private moment between the pair of them was suddenly interrupted as the heavy wooden door began to open. Leaping apart, they both looked towards the newcomer.

Desmarais was brusque and business-like, his face stern. He was followed by two servants bearing trays loaded with food and drink. "I trust that you are finding everything in order, Minister. I made the presumption that you would not want to be interrupted in your work, so I have had lunch brought to you. You will excuse me if I do not remain, but I must look to the comfort of the Duchess."

And he was gone, leaving the two men staring bemusedly at each other.

"I assume that he does not want us to spoil his lunch with Milady," Aramis said at length.

"Either that or he wants to make sure that he is not anywhere near the two of us; his demeanour towards us earlier this morning was decidedly cold," Athos offered, a distinct gleam in his eyes at the thought of upsetting his host in any way possible.

"Our very presence here is making him uncomfortable and a continued stay might press him into making a mistake of some sort but we cannot depend upon it. Let us eat and rethink our options."

II

"The man is dangerous!" Desmarais hissed at Benoit as they met together in a small room attached to the chateau's great hall. "He comes here under the pretence of being someone else. For what purpose? His friends, including the First Minister, are all in on this subterfuge. Now you tell me that he has been living in this area, owning land nearby for more than two years. Why? He must have been spying on me all along."

"You don't know that for sure," Benoit said, in a vain effort to placate his employer. "He farmed the land and, so I have heard, helped people in the village when they were struggling."

"Meddler! That's what he is! What right had he to come to the aid of my tenants? They are answerable to me and me only. If they could not manage, it was down to their own incompetence. What was he trying to do? Turn them against me? Fomenting his own type of rebellion, just like that infernal woman of his! It was she who led the petition of the womenfolk. Let her death be a salutary lesson to all of them."

"His child died with her," Benoit reminded him carefully.

"An incidental benefit, it now seems," Desmarais said coldly. "I could say that it is his just desserts for his interference."

"But it has also sent him on a quest for revenge."

Desmarais rounded on him. "And my men paid a high price for their efficiency – with their lives. He is nothing but a cold-blooded killer."

"A grieving husband and father who sought the men responsible," Benoit dared to correct him.

"Husbands and fathers lose their women and children all the time," the Baron was dismissive, "but they don't all have the murderous skills of an ex-musketeer. What's the matter, Benoit? Not going soft on me, are you? Sympathising with this killer?"

"On the contrary," Benoit hastened to reassure him, "but I am offering another reason for the man's presence here. He's hell-bent upon revenge."

"I didn't kill his woman!" Desmarais objected vehemently.

"But you employed the men who did. Dealing with the villagers' refusal to pay the added taxes was on your orders; it would not take someone long to work that out and any of the people could have told him what happened."

"He wasn't there?" the Baron's brow furrowed.

"Apparently not. He turned up a month later; they were long buried by then. He made arrangements for the grave marker but did not stay around to see it erected."

"And how have you suddenly found out all this?"

"Having visited the cemetery last night and made the connection, I went back to the village shortly after first light and asked some questions but thought I ought to make myself scarce when the Musketeer Captain and the General appeared."

Desmarais took a sharp intake of breath. "I could have done without their questions for they will undoubtedly be informed of the two increases."

"I said you were taking a risk there," Benoit added.

The Baron scowled at him. "I did not hear you coming up with any reasonable alternatives at the time! Now I will have to face their questions when they return for it goes without saying that the villagers will talk and make all sort of complaint against me."

"Apart from the fact that what they say will largely be the truth, what excuse might you give?" He cast a critical eye around the room they were in. "I don't think your previous suggestion about renovations in the chateau will be believed."

"You forget yourself, Benoit," Desmarais said scathingly. "Besides, you will be busy shadowing this Athos. You will follow him all the time; if need be, you will sit outside his bedroom door. I want to know exactly what he is doing and saying and what he is trying to find on me. If he has been spying on my activities for at least two years, he must be suspicious about the Spanish."

"I cannot watch him all day and night; I would need to have help," Benoit began.

"No-one! Absolutely no-one else must know what is going on. The only other two with a partial knowledge of my negotiations with the Spanish are now, unfortunately, dead – thanks to this man. You will keep him under surveillance and, when I give the instruction, you will kill him and, this time, you will succeed."

"It will not be easy to follow him if he should be with the other three."

"Damn it, Benoit! Enough of your excuses!" Desmarais roared, his face going purple in rage. "If that man farts, I want to know it!"

III

Athos and Aramis sat either side of the desk as they took advantage of the lunch provided for them by Desmarais' servants. The First Minister surreptitiously noted what the other man was eating; it was a long-established habit that he found hard to break and was borne of many hours spent urging Athos to eat enough for the valued healing process after injury and illness over the years. Whilst never a big eater and one who would rather eschew the task in favour of wine, Athos was eating a reasonable amount now that would guarantee a rebuilding of his strength and muscle and putting more flesh on his lean form. Aramis felt an odd sense of relief but he would never speak of it aloud.

All the while, Athos' eyes swept the room and Aramis did not interrupt, leaving him to concentrate and knowing that his mind was working, planning their next move.

"Desmarais must have something in writing, some record of the revenue raised from the additional taxation and stipulating what he has done with it. I cannot conceive that the man has no evidence of what he has been involved in, not for the benefit of the likes of us, but for his own use, evidence that safeguards him in his dealings with the Spanish," Athos mused aloud.

"So documentation, in addition to accounts, will be hidden away somewhere and we just have to discover where exactly. It should not be difficult; we only have a whole chateau to search," Aramis quipped, amusement lighting up his face.

Athos rolled his eyes at the comment but the corners of his mouth twitched.

"Where do you propose we start then?" and Aramis rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

"I'll start with this desk, although I doubt that I will find evidence in a place so obvious. Our worst nightmare would be if he has separated the documents and secreted them throughout the books in this room. I do not relish the prospect of having to go through each volume just in case."

"Wouldn't he run the risk of forgetting exactly where he has put some of it?" Aramis was not keen on the idea either.

"There is that possibility, which is why I think it unlikely. There may well be hiding places set underneath some of the furniture here, in the cupboards, behind the tapestries or even behind that wood panelling on that wall." As he sat with his back to the window and the courtyard, he indicated the wall to his right with a nod of the head.

Aramis glanced round the room. "Odd, don't you think, that that is the only wall that is panelled? Surely all the walls would have had the same treatment or did the money not last for it?"

Athos frowned and seemed to ponder Aramis' words and looked back at the wall. Without speaking, he got up, walked over to it and studied it closely, running his fingers along the raised wooden strips that divided the panels into squares. When he found nothing, he stepped back and chewed thoughtfully at the skin around his thumbnail. Then he moved to scrutinise where the wood met the side walls. All the while, Aramis watched him carefully.

"What are you thinking?"

"Not sure," Athos replied slowly and then, beginning with his back flat against the wood, he counted his paces as he crossed the room to the door, through which he disappeared. Aramis went after him to discover him exploring the corridor and the entrance to the next room, the door to which was in the near corner. He paced the corridor between the doors and frowned.

"What's the matter?" Aramis asked.

Athos shook his head. "There is a discrepancy. Why should the library be longer on the outside than the inside?"

"What?" Aramis began, following him back into the library, only to find him pacing the floor again to the wall.

Athos stood before the wood panelling and closely inspected it once more.

"I didn't mean it when I was thinking about secret rooms," Aramis said.

"Why not?" Athos asked, running his hands lightly over a section of the wood. "Richelieu had a secret room behind the book shelves in his office which was then used by Rochefort, and Tréville had one behind the panelling in his bedchamber*."

He paused, his eyes gleaming in self-satisfaction as a click sounded and the panelling opened a few inches towards him. "Lock the door; we do not want to be disturbed."

A fire had been set in the hearth before the two men had settled there. It had not been a cold morning and they had allowed it to burn low, but Athos was thankful for it as he used its dying flame to light first a taper and then a candle positioned on the stone mantlepiece. Minutes later the pair, with suppressed excitement, pulled open the panelling and moved behind it. The space beyond was the width of two men abreast and ran the length of the wall. Some shelving was evident at the far end, but it was immediately obvious that it was empty. Below it, however, there stood a chest of four drawers.

"If Porthos were here, he'd be betting on the chances of it being locked," Aramis murmured as they approached it.

"And if it were, he'd have it open in a few minutes," Athos assured him, as he set the candle stick down on a shelf above the drawers, its flickering flame casting a warm glow. Taking the handles, he pulled and the top drawer, after an initial resistance, jerked open. Inside was an untidy pile of papers and torn vellum. Hardly daring to breathe, he took them out and Aramis held the candle closer as he quickly sorted through them.

"Nothing but household instructions and inventories, some dating way back into the last century," he announced, trying not to let his disappointment show even as he reached for the next drawer.

Minutes later, he gave vent to his pent-up frustration and slammed the flat of his hand against the wall.

"Nothing!" Aramis spat out. "All that and we have nothing! Why have a secret room if you are not going to hide your secrets in it?"

Athos turned slowly to him as an idea struck him. "It suggests that the secret is too big to risk even a safe place like this."

"You don't think that what we seek is elsewhere within the chateau? If it is, where do we start looking? Heaven only knows how many rooms there are here and, with the cellars as well, we could be searching for days and still come up with nothing. That's always assuming Desmarais becomes an unrealistically compliant host and lets us have access to the entire place without asking any questions! And if it has one secret room, there could be others."

Athos' shoulders slumped as his mood deflated in the face of the enormity of their task. "He may not keep the documents within the chateau at all."

"Come," Aramis said, softening, and holding out a hand to guide him from the enclosed space. "Let us go for that ride we promised ourselves. We have been cooped up in the library for far too long. Let us get some fresh air and think again about this."

Readying themselves for a ride, they instructed a servant to send to the stables for their horses to be saddled.

"I will do as you ask, Minister, but urge you to reconsider," the man said. "Look to the sky; there's rain on its way."

The two friends did just that. Whereas the morning had been bright and the sky blue, the wind was getting up and vast storm clouds began to gather to the north-east.

"I thank you for your concern, but my friend and I are used to hours, if not days, in the saddle in adverse weather conditions. The prospect of a little rain will not deter us; besides, we do not intend being out for very long."

As the pair crossed the yard with their long, evenly matched strides, Athos eyed the ominous skies. "You realise we are probably going to get a soaking."

Aramis shrugged as if disinterested. "I would prefer to say 'possibly' instead of 'probably', but we need to escape this place for a while and gather our thoughts." He refrained from stating the obvious, that he thought it more for Athos' benefit than his own after such a fruitless morning.

They halted as the head groom brought their mounts towards them. It was probably in deference to Aramis' status as First Minister that the man thought it better to do the job himself, rather than leave it to a mere stable boy. He, too, seemed bothered by the imminent change in the weather.

"Are you sure, Minister?"

Aramis repeated what he had already said but the man shook his head.

"This will be more than just rain, Minister. That's a huge storm moving in. If you went towards the village, you could shelter there if need be."

As much as they were tempted to discover how Porthos and d'Artagnan were faring, it would defeat the object in keeping Athos away from the villagers to avoid anyone recognising him; they had no way of knowing that Benoit had already successfully identified him and informed the Baron.

"Is there nowhere else?" Athos asked as he swung up into the saddle with practised ease.

The groom thought for a moment. "If you head north west and you get caught in the storm, there is an old hunting lodge about a league and a half from here. It's little used now and not maintained but it should give you enough shelter if needed. Leave through the archway there, turn north and follow the track across the pastureland behind the chateau and into the forest. Your route will remain clear for a while and, when it comes to a fork, take the right one. It'll rapidly narrow but after a while there will be a track off to the right again; look out for it as it may be a little overgrown. Like I said, the Baron doesn't use the hunting lodge these days."

"Thanks," Athos acknowledged him as he and Aramis rode towards the archway.

They were crossing the pasture before either of them spoke again.

"Perhaps this was not our wisest move," Athos said, pulling his hat down harder on his head as a gust of cold wind threatened to remove it.

"We need not be out long. We can exercise our mounts and be back at the chateau before the storm arrives," Aramis replied. "Besides, this is merely bracing!"

"That is not the word I would use to describe it," Athos retorted. "Anyway, I do not think we will have time to return."

"And why would you think that?"

Athos glanced across at his companion and smiled. "I am inclined to investigate Desmarais' little-used hunting lodge that is only accessible by a track that may or may not be overgrown."

And he spurred his mount into a gallop, leaving Aramis to assimilate his words before urging his horse in pursuit.

 **A/N**

 _As recounted in 'Renegade'_

the league referred to here is the _'lieue ancienne',_ an old French league that was official in parts of France until 1674. It equates to 2.018 miles.


	33. Chapter 33

_**Dear all, another chapter to 'keep you going'. If I get anything written over the next couple of weeks, I was thinking that I might change strategy and go for shorter chapters so that I can at least post something. I hope you don't mind. I was running out of time on this one and it has not ended where I originally planned but it will have to wait for another day.**_

 _ **Thank you for all your words of encouragement. I am glad that so many of you are still enjoying and following this story. I'd love to hear from you. I meant to apologise at the start of the last chapter about a word I included (to do with bodily functions and totally unexpected of Athos!) Hope it didn't shock too many of you! If any errors have crept in here, they are the result of my carelessness and the fact that it is after 1.30 am and I need to get to sleep so please forgive me.**_

 _ **Until the next time, please enjoy.**_

CHAPTER 33

I

"More wine, my dear?" Desmarais asked, leaning forward to refill Milady's goblet but she moved faster and covered it with her hand.

"I have already had two, Auguste. If I did not know better, I would suspect that you were trying to get me drunk," she said teasingly.

He set down the bottle and held up his hands. "I am sorry, nothing is further from my mind."

She did not believe him and went on evasively, "Goodness, I have eaten so much, I shall never want to eat dinner this evening."

"There is time enough for that." He changed the subject. "Did you enjoy your ride this morning?"

"Very much so," she lied easily. "It is a beautiful estate and so extensive, yet you did not show me the village."

"Why would you want to see that?" he asked, bemused.

"Why not?" she countered. "You said that they had been causing you problems. I was curious to see who was at the heart of the unrest."

"You should not trouble yourself with such things, my dear. Those people are unimportant. Why don't you have some more fruit?" Desmarais tried to distract her.

"They are your tenants, they paid you taxes." It was a struggle, but she managed to keep her voice light and her features schooled into a disarming smile. "You said you dealt with it, but did people actually die?" She asked in a feigned, wide-eyed innocence, her questions stemming from what he had suggested at dinner the night before.

"Some people were killed, including some of my own men," he admitted as he took her hand in his and patted the back of it. "But that is not a topic of conversation I want us to be discussing now that we have time together." He took a deep breath. "I am concerned that the Minister is making a nuisance of himself in his attentions."

She gave a coquettish laugh. "You need not worry, Auguste. I am well-versed in court gossip about the Minister's past flirtations. Let me assure you that I am perfectly capable of looking after myself."

"I have no doubt about that, but I would like to be able to offer you that protection."

Milady lowered her eyes. "I don't know what you mean, Auguste."

He looked awkwardly about the room. "I know you must be used to better than this. I admit the place lacks a woman's touch; unfortunately my first wife did not live long enough to make her mark but ….." His voice trailed off.

"Auguste, is this your idea of a proposal?" she asked. It struck her that she had had several others that had been far more genuine and romantic - especially one, but that was so long ago now that she dare not let herself think of that time, or him, even though the person concerned was only a few rooms away from where she was sitting.

"I know it is a clumsy effort, my dear, but it is not something that I have had practised! I just hope that you can forgive me." His fingers closed about her hand and clasped her tightly as his eyes searched her face.

Her mind raced. If she denied him, he might turn upon her and demand that she leave, thereby denying her the ability to help the four friends more directly. If she accepted, it would enhance his mood; she could keep him distracted and the others could find the proof they needed so that he could be taken back to Paris for trial before any marriage could take place. There would be no benefit for her from any arrangement for, when convicted of treason, his lands and possessions would be forfeit to the crown. If the worst came to pass and the men could not find the evidence, then she would still have recourse to the original plan, ignoring that the Queen had rescinded the order to kill him. In that event, it remained to be seen whether she had the opportunity to kill him before Athos did. Whether she chose to marry Desmarais first in that instance would be her ultimate decision. For now, though, she had made up her mind.

She leaned forward, her gaze enticing and her voice low and sultry. "I would be delighted to be your wife, my dear Auguste."

II

D'Artagnan and Porthos had lost count of the number of people to whom they had spoken. True to their word, they denied no-one the chance to air their grievances against Desmarais and that was what was taking the time. On one thing, all those interviewed agreed on the same thing. The taxes had been increased months ago and they had struggled but met the demands. Some referred to help they had received from Athos and Sylvie, either when he had made a financial contribution or when the couple had donated extra food from their own supplies. Then Desmarais demanded more, passing on an additional increase from Paris. Each time this was mentioned by the villagers, the two soldiers made sure that they stressed the fact that it had nothing to do with Paris, the crown, Aramis or any of the council.

They learned first hand from the women how, when the men had failed to make Desmarais listen to their grievances and fears, Sylvie had motivated them as wives and mothers to petition the man to make him understand the detrimental effect this was having on them and their children.

"If we paid that second demand, we faced starvation," Marie Bevard took up the tale. As her husband had spoken for the men, so she was the voice of the women. "The weather had been bad and affected the growth of everything, vegetables included. We had little decent to sell for profit; it was hard enough to put the food on the table, let alone have anything extra. Sylvie and her husband helped as much as they could."

Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged a glance. They were not about to correct her assumption that Sylvie and Athos were legally married; she was not to know that he was not free for that. If that lie had been sustained by the couple to ensure acceptance, then so be it.

Marie continued her account. "Our men did not want to accept charity and, for a while, her man gave them jobs on their small holding and paid them for their toil. He was often away – I don't know what was so important that it took him from her and the boy – so the help was needed. There was too much for her to do on her own but there were so many people and time was too short when the new increase was demanded. Working together as a community, we tried to raise the money between us but we could not find much of it. When her man returned briefly, he offered to make up as much of the shortfall on the taxes as he could; we promised him that we'd pay it back when we could but that we would hold out for as long as we could. We weren't about to give up hope; perhaps we expected too much that we could make Desmarais see reason.

"The men didn't manage it so Sylvie, with her learning, wrote a petition an' we women all made our mark. Her man had gone away again when we decided that there was no more time to lose so we went to the chateau. Desmarais admitted us into the hall and we gave him the petition, but he just saw it as a massive source of entertainment. He read the petition and then he laughed at us, he did. That was at first. Then he changed, no warning, and started shouting for his men. They threw us out. Some of the women were hurt but they didn't care. It was awful, the things they shouted after us as we headed back to the village.

"Next day, we were gathered in the meeting place discussing what we might do next when Desmarais' men came in force. They were demanding immediate payment in full but we could not do it so they said they would go to our homes and take our livestock and tools. We had nothing else of value. When we begged them to stop, they set fire to the meeting house and threatened to do the same to our homes if we did not obey at once. It was no uprising, despite what the Baron would have you believe. Our men were just trying to stop them, to defend our homes and property and they turned on us." Her voice caught at the memory and she stopped talking as she struggled to control her emotions.

"Some of you were hurt or worse?" d'Artagnan asked softly, sensible to her feelings.

She nodded. "Eight were injured but six of our number were killed: one man, three women and two children, as well as two of Desmarais' men. The women and children were easy targets."

Porthos and d'Artagnan sat stunned at the news for they had never heard the full extent of how many had been affected. They had been so pre-occupied with the thought of Sylvie and Raoul being victims of the unrest that they had never stopped to really consider that others had been involved.

A rumble of thunder broke the stillness and silence that had descended upon the room and, within seconds, rain drummed on the roof of the building.

"Don't think you'll be going anywhere soon," Bevard said, moving to sit beside his wife and slipping a comforting arm around her shoulders.

"Doesn't look like it," Porthos agreed. "How many more folk do we need to see?"

"A handful, that's all; they were waiting outside but will have gone to seek shelter. I can send a messenger to get them when you're ready but, in the meantime, a couple of the women have gone to get food for you. You must be hungry."

D'Artagnan gave a low laugh. "Porthos here is always hungry and will never turn down the offer of food."

Porthos rolled his eyes and pretended to be offended. "'Ow many men 'as the Baron got doin' his dirty work for 'im?"

The musketeer Captain nodded his approval at the question. It was something they needed to know for they had seen few people at the chateau other than serving staff and when they found out what they needed in order to arrest Desmaraias, his men might have other ideas. It would be helpful to know in advance what they would potentially be dealing with.

"At least twenty …" Bevard began.

"Twenty?" Porthos was incredulous. "Where are they all?"

"Up at the chateau, as far as we know."

The two soldiers exchanged alarmed glances; neither of them had seen any sign of so many men at the chateau. Where were they? Was Desmarais deliberately concealing them? If so, why?

"Mind you," Bevard continued, "two of the Baron's men were killed during the trouble and another two died later, under mysterious circumstances."

"Really?" d'Artagnan was not going to divulge Athos' part in the deaths of the men.

"Yes and the Baron was not happy. He came here several times with many of his men, asked questions and threatened us. He was so angry. Some of the men have other work they do, like the woodsman and a couple of them work in the chateau. Other than that, they just stay up there and do his bidding, especially his main man, Benoit."

"He was round here making a nuisance of himself this morning," Marie added.

"Who? Benoit?" d'Artagnan asked.

"That's the one," she confirmed. "It was strange, now I think of it. He was asking a lot of questions about Sylvie's husband, Olivier d'Athos."

"Such as?" Porthos pressed her as he tried not to react to hearing Athos' name spoken.

"Where he was when she died, where he was now and when he was last seen. He also wanted to know what he looked like."

Porthos exhaled loudly and sat back in his chair. It seemed that Benoit had discovered that the First Minister's secretary and the owner of the small holding were one and the same.

III

"This looks like it," Athos called out above the sound of the wind and the torrential rain that was falling.

"Hope so," Aramis said, wincing as another lightning flash ripped through the gathering gloom and was immediately followed by a loud crack of thunder. "We need to get out of this storm. It's not a good idea to be under all these trees right now."

Athos urged his horse on up the trail; the animal was uneasy in the weather conditions and it was taking him all his energy to keep it under control. "Doesn't seem very overgrown to me," he called back over his shoulder.

"Looks like it is well-maintained. It must have been cut back recently," Aramis agreed.

The trail went on for a while and then opened out into a clearing where a one storey wooden building stood. An outbuilding to the right of it provided some shelter for the horses even though it only consisted of a few upright posts and a roof. Pulling off their saddles, they tethered them well in the centre of the structure as the lack of sides to their temporary accommodation would not give total protection from the driving rain and it was clear that the violence of the storm was unnerving the animals.

The two men ran for the front door of the main building, both hoping that it was not locked. It wasn't, and they burst through the door to escape the elements at last. Both were soaked to the skin and pulled off sodden capes, hats and doublets and shook the water from their hair.

"We need to get out of these wet clothes before we catch our deaths," Aramis said, already starting to shiver.

Athos was already crossing to the large fireplace. "Interesting how this 'little-used hunting lodge' is so well-stocked with firewood," he commented, taking some from the large log basket and arranging it in the hearth.

"Perhaps it was left here from the last time it was used," Aramis offered, as he left Athos to light the fire and started exploring.

The lodge was mainly one large room furnished with a variety of chairs arranged near the fire, a long trestle table and benches. He quickly discovered that the three doors ranged along one wall led to two small bedrooms and what passed as a kitchen area. Athos was blowing on the embers of a fire when Aramis returned carrying a couple of blankets, two goblets and a bottle of wine. Sitting in a chair nearest the fireplace, he peeled off the remainder of his wet clothes and wrapped himself in one of the blankets before pouring the wine. Athos sat back on his haunches as the fire took hold and accepted a drink. Sipping at it, he gave an appreciative sigh.

"This is a good quality," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, and there's more where that came from. There's also a lot of food in the cupboard, including fresh bread, and the beds are made up with clean linen. For a 'little-used hunting lodge', it is well stocked in all sorts of ways."

Athos stood and began undressing, the wet clothing now having turned cold and sticking to him.

"Such a waste if it is maintained on the chance that someone – like us – might pass by and make use of it," Aramis said, not believing a word of his suggestion.

Shaking his head, Athos then took another mouthful of wine. "This is stocked for a reason. Desmarais is expecting at least one visitor and soon if that bread is anything to go by."

"Why does he not entertain these new guests at the chateau? There is plenty of room and even if there wasn't, I'm more than happy to double up." His smile indicated that he did not really need Athos to explain but the explanation was provided anyway.

"They are not guests Desmarais is eager for us to meet and my suspicious mind makes me think that they may be Spanish agents."

"Capture them and we have our proof!" Aramis said, raising his glass aloft in a toast.

Athos gave a wry smile. "So why do I have this nasty feeling that it will not be as easy as all that?"


	34. Chapter 34

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Well, the exam marking is done; now it is time to catch up on everything else. Last week's snow forced closure as we did not have enough staff for student safety so I put the time to good use: writing, reading, sleeping …. and the exam marking! Thank you for all the wonderful responses to the three chapters I wrote during half term; I've managed another two and a half whilst off last week so I am pleased to say that there will be at least one more chapter this week, possibly two if I could persuade the final one to behave!**_

 _ **So, in this chapter, we rejoin Athos and Aramis as they take shelter from the storm in Desmarais' hunting lodge. As always, apologies for any errors that may have crept in - they're all mine!**_

CHAPTER 34

"This is not quite Louis' hunting lodge at Versailles*," Athos suddenly said, breaking the companionable silence that had settled on the two friends. They were sitting, still wrapped in their blankets, on plain wooden chairs either side of the fire that now blazed in the hearth. Two more bottles of wine had joined the first in standing on the floor between them as they feasted on the fresh bread, cheese and cold meats they had found. Other stools were also drawn up to the fire, bedecked with clothing spread out to dry and the smell of wet wool pervaded the air whilst they joked that they could see their cloaks beginning to steam.

Aramis chuckled. "I was a raw recruit when I joined in escorting the King on his first trip there when he had it built back in '24. Louis was like a child when he first saw it; he was so excited."

"Louis was like a child over so many things," Athos said pointedly as he thought back to his encounters with the monarch during his years, first as a musketeer soldier and then as Captain in service to Louis XIII.

"He certainly had his moments," Aramis agreed. "I don't think I have ever seen a man throw the tantrums he did."

"But there were also the good times," Athos conceded, for the King, despite times of apparent instability or ill-health, left a mixed legacy on his death from the white plague.** Whilst France was stronger in so many respects, it also carried the ongoing burden of the cost of wars with parts of Europe, not least the continuing conflicts with Spain.

"I suppose so," Aramis reluctantly admitted.

As perverse as Louis could be, there were many occasions when he was totally committed to and supportive of the men in his personal regiment, including the man who led them for the first ten years of their existence – Tréville. There were, admittedly, the nightmarish months when the officer had been stripped of his captaincy, thanks to the manipulative plotting of the Comte de Rochefort which had succeeded in turning the King against him and aided by Tréville's refusal to serve on the King's council. He had always considered himself a soldier first and foremost, and certainly not a politician. There had been a strong feeling amongst the musketeers of a wrong righted when Tréville had eventually been made Minister for War as the relationship between France and Spain irrevocably broke down. That time had seen many changes, not only for the country but for the _Inseparables_ too, a time of war that they seldom discussed.

Aramis looked about him and guided the conversation back onto safer ground. "I like this place; it's more …." He struggled for a suitable word, "… homely."

"I would describe it as basic," Athos retorted.

"I suppose yours was better," Aramis teased, daring to refer to the time when Athos was still liege lord of his own estate at Pinon. "Something between this one and Versailles?"

Athos afforded him a withering look. "Actually, yes it was. It was a two-storey wooden structure of several rooms in forest land some miles from the main chateau."

His gaze turned wistfully into the fire and Aramis immediately berated himself, wondering what memories of _her_ it had inadvertently caused to surface. Having a conversation with Athos was sometimes like treading on the proverbial eggshells; few topics were utterly free from arousing some negative memory and there was no way that all of them could be easily circumnavigated.

"I suppose we ought to start searching this place," Athos announced. "Being so small, it should hardly be difficult or take us too long. It would at least keep us occupied whilst we wait for our clothes to dry off some more."

They began with the main room where they were, automatically going to opposite corners and working towards each other, but the hunt through cupboards and drawers, under and behind other furniture, and for secret or loose panels in the wooden walls amounted to nothing.

"Nothing here," Athos announced, his eyes sweeping the room once more to confirm that they had explored everywhere. "Kitchen next." They headed to the farthest door.

That took very little time. One table stood beneath the only window, two bowls and a large jug on its surface the sole means for washing food. In the middle of the room was a preparation table whilst in a small fireplace on the end wall there was the means to suspend a pot above the fire to heat its contents. Clearly the lodge was not designed for serious catering, given that it was not too far from Desmarais' chateau and the resources he had there. It was more likely that, were he to lead a hunting party, food would be prepared back in the kitchens and brought to the lodge where it could be kept hot for him and his guests.

One cupboard was set into a recess and this the two men searched thoroughly. All of the contents – recently delivered food from its condition - were removed and inspected to see if anything had been concealed within boxes, jars or sacks but, yet again, their efforts were met with failure. Tapping the walls and studying the wooden flooring proved to be additional futile exercises.

The middle door opened onto the larger of the two sleeping areas and sported a big bed, plain in its design but serviceable; Aramis still clutched its coverlet around him to preserve his decency and to ward off the chills. The room was probably reserved for the Baron but why he should choose to stay the night there when the chateau was so close at hand was a mystery. The lodge could not provide for a large party even if his men slept on bedrolls laid out in the main room.

Athos tried hard not to think of the afternoons - and some nights – that he and Ann had stayed at his hunting lodge on the Pinon estate, escaping the ever-watchful eyes of the servants, his brother Thomas and even Catherine so that, for a few hours at least, they could pretend that they were the only two people in the world. They would lie in one of the big beds there, feeding each other delicacies from the picnic they had brought with them, sated from their frenzied love-making.

Even as he remembered her green eyes studying him with what he believed was utter devotion, imagined once again weaving his fingers through her dark tresses and feeling the passion-inspired heat of her silken skin pressed against his body, a stab of guilt caused his breath to hitch in his throat as he thought of another – Sylvie. As the image of her swam before him and he recalled the light caress of her touch on his face, the press of her lips on his, the way her body moulded to him when he held her close, it was all he could do to suppress a groan. How could he dare to think of them both in the same breath?

But that was exactly what he had done – thought of these two women, so different in their manner, their beauty and personalities. Both, though, had come into his life almost by accident, at a time when he had least expected meeting anyone who could affect him the way they had done; two headstrong women who had beguiled him, drawing from him an all-consuming love and commitment so that the loss of each, for different reasons, had subsequently destroyed him.

"Athos?"

He was suddenly aware of hearing his name and, from the expression on Aramis' face, the man must have been trying to get his attention for some time.

"Are you back with me?" The question was gently couched, one of concern.

Athos shook his head as he tried to dispel all thoughts of the women he had loved – and lost. "Yes, sorry. What were you saying?"

"I'll check these drawers if you take the coffer over there."

Athos murmured his agreement and used both hands to lift the heavy, carved lid of the chest standing against a wall. It seemed to contain only spare linens and blankets but that did not stop him from pulling them out and carelessly throwing them onto the floor as he scrutinised the base for any concealed compartments. Nothing!

"You'll have to refold them," Aramis said, coming to help him and stooping to pick up the nearest blanket.

"What about you?" Athos was referring to the drawers. His efforts to fold neatly were nothing in comparison with Aramis' endeavours so that, with a frustrated huff, he threw his half-hearted attempt back into the chest.

Aramis shook his head as he bent to retrieve Athos' blanket and refolded it swiftly. "It's completely empty." He reached for the one Athos was now playing listlessly through his hands as he stood distracted.

"There has to be something somewhere," he muttered, once more surveying the room. Suddenly, he slapped Aramis lightly on the forearm in warning and approached the bed. "Help me move this."

Intrigued, Aramis dropped the blanket, its importance paling into insignificance as Athos braced himself to move the bed.

Together, they strained to push the heavy piece of furniture, ignoring when the blankets that shrouded them slipped with their activities. They had managed to angle the bed from its original position when, shrugging back into his covering, Athos called a halt and dropped to his knees, fingers feeling the knots of wood and the edges of two specific floorboards. He tapped them individually and at the surrounding boards; there was a distinct difference.

He looked up at Aramis with a hint of a self-satisfied grin. "Can you get me a knife of some sort?"

Back within a couple of minutes, Aramis handed him the blade and watched as he deftly prised up an edge of one board. "How did you know?"

Sliding the first plank to one side, Athos worked at loosening the second. "From where I was standing, I could see just far enough under the bed and the light from the window was shining on this spot. Although the rest of the place is clean, those responsible have not been so careful in sweeping the floor under the bed itself. The disturbance to the dust and finger marks were very clear and I think …." Here he hesitated as he reached beneath the floor and, with both hands, pulled out a wooden box. "This might be what we have been looking for."

They moved as one to sit on the bed, side by side, separated only by the box.

"Locked," Athos announced, unsurprised. "What we need right now is Porthos with his lock-picking skills. Not knowing what it holds, we cannot force it open in case we need to leave it here and not alert anyone to our discovery. We could take it with us but, with those unknown visitors imminent, we cannot guarantee to return it quickly enough should it be needed."

"Maybe there's another way," Aramis began, tipping the box onto its long side so that he could see the back more clearly. "As I thought; they are old, rudimentary hinges on the back. The pins just slide through. If we could knock and loosen them …" He did not finish his train of thought as Athos reached for a pewter candlestick from a shelf beside the bed and proceeded to hit the point of one of the pins. It was not an easy task and he cursed liberally as the candlestick found his fingertips more often than he would have liked but, after a while, he had pushed the pin enough that he could grasp it by its head and ease it out the rest of the way. The point was discoloured by the hits but at least it was not misshapen and meant that they could put it back.

"One down," Athos announced and repositioned the box to make it easier to attack the second hinge.

"My turn," Aramis offered and, relieved, Athos passed over the box and candlestick before putting a battered index finger in his mouth in a vain attempt to ease both the ache and bruising.

Minutes later, the lid was half off, held only by its lock. Not daring to speak, the pair reached into the box and pulled out its contents. As Aramis glanced at separate documents, Athos leafed through a leather-bound volume filled with an untidy scrawl.

"Letters!" Aramis said, gesticulating with papers in each hand. "Copies of ones sent to Spain and others from there, in Spanish."

"What do they say?" Athos asked, his brow furrowing as Aramis re-read some of them, his lips moving rapidly as he translated them in his head. From them, he looked at Athos, his dark eyes glowing with jubilation.

"Enough, my friend, to bring Desmarais to justice," he breathed. "They arrange meetings here and elsewhere in north-west France. I have not read all of them fully, but some speak of 'arrangements' of some sort, hinting at pecuniary deals and more. I can soon see if they say anything more specific. What have you got there?"

Athos faltered and, when he eventually spoke, there was a discernible quiver in his voice. "The rest of the proof. Accounts of additional taxation of the tenants. How much he has got from them, what he has borrowed from elsewhere, how much he has paid the Spanish and the dates of those transactions. There are some scribbled notes too. I would have to spend time trying to decipher them but here is everything that we need. We have got him, Aramis." His voice caught with a deep-seated emotion and Aramis leaned forward to rest an understanding hand on his.

"Is he mad that he has written it all down somewhere?" Aramis asked eventually.

"I don't think so," Athos replied. "I think he has kept it to hold against the Spanish should they renege on any of the agreements."

The First Minister made a sound of disbelief. "And he thinks that would protect him against a Spanish force or even a raiding party?"

Athos shrugged. "It must have been in his mind that these papers afforded him some sort of security."

"Now that _is_ mad," Aramis concluded. "Did it not occur to him that such paperwork could denounce him as a traitor in our eyes should it be found, just as we have done?"

"Either he thought it was worth the risk or he is arrogant enough to believe that he has covered his tracks well, that we would have no suspicions and, secreted away as these documents were, we would never find them."

"He's got that wrong!" Aramis declared.

Athos looked to the window. Rain still fell but it was no longer the torrential downpour of earlier; the late afternoon light was a worry though. He began to pile the book and documents back into the box, his movements now hasty.

"Why are you putting all the papers back? We need those so that we can confront him."

"Not immediately," Athos decided. "I want to know who is coming here and why. _Then_ we can confront him – and them. We can get him and the Spanish agents at the same time. If we take all the papers, he will know they have been discovered and will be a desperate man."

"Take some of them then, a few," Aramis urged. "If he should ever suspect that we have seen the contents before we are ready, he could yet destroy the lot, all the evidence. We need something with which to convict him."

"I dare not take the book, not yet. Anyway, we have the villagers themselves to corroborate the increased taxes. Quickly select three or four of the more damning letters and then we need to work fast. We must restore this place to what it was when we came in and douse the fire. To the uninitiated, it must look as if no-one has been here."

"That might be a little difficult when we have eaten half the bread, attacked the meat and cheese and reduced the wine stock."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Then we take the evidence of our having been here with us when we go. It will either seem as if their arrival is a little premature or the person tasked with providing provisions for them has not done their job properly. Whilst we work, we need to have the door open to eradicate the warmth and we must hope that _they_ are not already here, lurking in the forest having seen the smoke from our fire. If that is the case, they might have already turned on their heels and gone."

"Or not. They might think we are the welcoming committee; Desmarais himself come for the meeting with them." Aramis grinned. "We would give them a nasty surprise."

"And they us, if they chose to make an entrance now and discovered us wearing naught but these blankets and our weapons in another room entirely. We had better get dressed first."

Some forty minutes later, they were out of the lodge, on horseback and heading towards the main trail. Both were fully alert now, their eyes scanning the woodland on either side of them for any movement, their ears straining for any sound that was not natural. There was a moment when Aramis' horse gave a nervous snort, its ears pricking up as if it had heard something and, as if in response, Athos' horse danced sideways a few steps. The men halted and waited, hands reaching instinctively for their weapons, but neither heard nor saw anything untoward. Their horses quietened soon enough, and they resumed their journey.

Their ride to the pasture was uneventful and they felt they could break the silence they had maintained amongst the trees.

"What now?" Aramis asked as they slowed the horses to a walk.

"I will return to the lodge after dark and watch it. I want to know who arrives and when," Athos said.

"Alone?"

"There is no-one else whose presence would not be sorely missed. I am your lowly secretary and Desmarais has made his displeasure obvious at my supping at table with him and the rest of you. We have already had one soaking this afternoon and our clothes were still damp; now we have got wet and cold again. You explained on our arrival that I was recovering from an illness so getting drenched will not have helped. You can explain my absence by saying that I am chilled, unwell and have taken to my bed. He will believe such a story."

"It's not just a story though, is it?"

"What do you mean?" Athos frowned.

"You have been very ill and you have got soaked to the skin twice this afternoon. The weather is unlikely to improve much the rest of the day and you intend going out again in it to watch the lodge? That is guaranteed to make you ill once more."

"A risk, not a guarantee," Athos corrected, "and one that I am prepared to take to bring about a swift end to this business."

"And if it takes longer than this night? We will need to work a rotation and come up with some justifiable reasons as to why one of us is always missing."

"No, we won't," Athos insisted. "I have conducted lengthy watches on my own in the last three years and survived to tell the tale. You will give Desmarais updates on my poor health and say that I do not want to be disturbed."

"And if he offers to bring in a physician?"

"Then you will explain that I will respond to no-one's care but your own, my dear Aramis," Athos reached across and clapped him soundly on the shoulder. "Apparently, I have heard much talk of your past healing prowess as a musketeer and you enjoy using old skills."

"You've thought this all through, haven't you?"

Athos nodded.

"And you will just watch the place?" Aramis pushed.

"Of course," Athos reassured him. "When whoever it is arrives, I shall come back for you three. I have no intention of engaging with the enemy on my own."

He spurred his horse into a gallop as the chateau loomed before them and Aramis raced to join him.

Behind them, in the gathering gloom, a mounted figure hung back in the treeline and watched as they disappeared. Reassured that they were returning to the chateau, Benoit urged his horse into the open. Cold and wet, he had spent a miserable afternoon waiting for them to reappear from the lodge. There had been that one tense moment when a noise from his horse had caused a reaction in the other animals and although the men had paused, they had not seen where he was hidden and had soon gone on their way. He had sighed with relief even as he had lightly rubbed at his horse's nose and gently chastised it for so nearly giving him away.

Now, though, as he approached the yard, he wondered what kind of reception he would get from Desmarais when he told the Baron that Athos and Aramis had found the hunting lodge and taken shelter there from the rain.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ *** Versailles hunting lodge – first built by Louis XIII in 1624 of brick and stone; architect Jacques Lemercier. The first wave of expansion into a royal palace under Louis XIV was 1661-1668.**_

 _ **** White plague - also known as white death - alternative names at the time for tuberculosis.**_


	35. Chapter 35

_**Oh my, thank you so much for the wonderful feed back I have had on the last chapter! I know I always say that I appreciate it and today is no exception. Your words have given me much encouragement at a time when I genuinely need it. The convoluted situation is truly escalating now and I confess to feeling more than a little worried as the final chapters begin to unfold. You have all been so patient and I want to do justice to the denouement of the tale. On the bright side, it is a three-chapter week though! 36 will appear on Friday after a little revision.**_

 _ **I'll let you read on and hope that you enjoy it.**_

CHAPTER 35

I

Desmarais could not act or put on some kind of convincing front, was not prepared to try and was only too aware of his shortcomings so, when Benoit delivered his latest piece of news, the resultant outburst from the Baron was fuelled by an uncontrollable rage bordering on hysteria.

He paced like a madman within the confines of the library, proclaiming that death was too swift and good for the likes of Athos, Allard or whatever name he wanted to call himself. He would be the first to be handed over to the Spanish and they could torture him; they knew ways of making it long-lasting and exceedingly painful, so much so that the man would be begging for death.

"You must not forget that the First Minister was with him," Benoit reminded him. "If they found anything they were not supposed to -"

"Like what?" Desmarais interrupted.

"I don't know," Benoit shrugged, trying to play the innocent but it was too late for that. Desmarais had, by his behaviour, inadvertently told Benoit where the evidence for dealings with the Spanish were probably kept hidden, and the man's subsequent question implied his correct conclusion. In retrospect, it was more likely that any necessary paperwork would be kept there given that that was the designated meeting place between Desmarais and the Spaniards. Benoit had no idea as to the nature of the documentation or its purpose for its maintenance but just assumed it was needed and helpful.

"And we don't know that they found anything anyway," he went on, trying to placate his employer.

"You might have tried to look through a window or something," Desmarais complained.

Benoit ignored the interruption. "They could have simply gone there because they were out for a ride, got caught in the storm and, as luck would have it, found the hunting lodge."

"That has been prepared for visitors," Desmarais spat out. "I am sure they would like to know the identity of these 'guests'."

"How are they to know other people are expected?" Benoit gave a knowing grin. "Perhaps, on your ride with the Duchess this morning, you intended to pay the lodge a visit and so food was taken there in readiness. If not today, then it could be in your plans for tomorrow. The Minister and his group are not to know that."

Desmarais liked what he was hearing and began to smile but then his features clouded once more. "But I will still have to explain the increased taxes to the General and Captain d'Artagnan; no doubt the peasants have been telling them a sad story."

"I can't see it being a topic of conversation over dinner with the Duchess sitting there," Benoit said. "It is business that they would take up with you later."

"It's business I do not want them to take up with me at all," Desmarais said petulantly, and went on to share the news of his betrothal to the Duchess.

Benoit was measured in his congratulations for he knew only too well the nefarious reasons behind the proposal.

"She is a most remarkable woman," the Baron muttered, a silly grin emerging even as his eyes took on a dreamy, far-away expression.

Benoit looked on in horror. Surely the man had not really become enamoured of the beautiful widow? That was a complication Benoit had not expected and it might lead Desmarais into carelessness; he would have to keep an eye on the Baron. Just another thing to add to his ever-growing list of responsibilities!

II

"Don't you ever knock?" Athos spluttered, grabbing the wet shirt he had just discarded and holding it in front of himself, his face reddening even as he began to shiver with the cold.

Aramis, in a similar state of undress, had thrown himself to the floor on the far side of the bed. D'Artagnan allowed himself a polite snigger whilst Porthos roared with laughter at the discomfort of his brothers. They had gathered in Aramis' room once more. The two who had interviewed the villagers had been back at the chateau for over an hour, taking advantage in a break in the rainfall so that they had avoided a drenching, unlike the others who were in desperate need of the blazing fire, a towel, dry clothes and wine - preferably in that order.

They had just peeled off their wet clothes for a second time that afternoon when the door was thrown open and an unexpected visitor came calling.

"If I had knocked and remained standing outside long enough for you to make yourself decent and bid me enter, someone could have seen me," Milady said dismissively as she flopped down into a chair by the fire, her skirts billowing around her. She reached for a full goblet of wine that had been poured in readiness for one of the men.

"What?" she demanded as she looked at them over the rim of the goblet, realising that they were all staring at her.

Athos did not move, the crimson on his face spreading down his neck as she sat directly in front of him at a distance of a few feet. Aramis had raised himself sufficiently so that he could peer at her over the side of the bed.

"Could you not ….. turn away?" Athos asked. He gesticulated to the far corner of the room but the shirt, now held in only one hand, shifted and he snatched at it again desperately.

Milady sighed dramatically and swivelled in her chair so that she was looking at the designated corner. "Honestly, it's not as if I have never seen you naked!"

D'Artagnan turned his back as he attempted to smother his amusement, Porthos swiped at the tears of mirth that streaked his cheeks, Aramis groaned and disappeared behind the bed again whilst the flush on Athos' skin spread alarmingly.

"That may be so, but it is not something that has occurred in a long while and I assume that you have never caught Aramis is such a state of déshabillé." He was trying – and failing miserably – to maintain a scrap of dignity and they all knew it.

"That's a new one on me," Porthos snorted and set off laughing again, joined by d'Artagnan, who lost his self-control with that comment.

Ignoring Porthos completely, Milady turned her head to stare at Athos, one eyebrow raised, her lips parting as if to make a rejoinder but, instead, she smiled knowingly, took another sip of wine and resumed her inspection of the far corner.

He snatched at a towel, gave a cursory rub at the damp chill on the lower part of his body and pulled on some clothes, hopping ineptly on one foot as the other caught in his breeches. He just stopped himself from falling over and dragged a clean shirt over his head with comic results. His hair, unruly at the best of times, was a law unto itself now. Short as it was and still wet, it either stuck out from his head or lay plastered round his face in developing curls.

Focused as she pretended to be on the wall, her heart ached as she saw the years of experience and trauma fall away and the young comte that she had fallen in love with re-emerged. It had been a never-ending source of amusement to her in the heady, early days of their marriage that, pale skinned as he was, she always knew exactly the right thing to say that would bring a flush to his cheeks. It was touching to discover that he had never lost this air of vulnerability, despite what had happened to him in the intervening years.

She could not resist one final dig. With a smile on her lips and her eyes never leaving the wall, she announced. "This room is not that large. I can still see you in my peripheral vision, you know!"

As Athos gave vent to an expletive that made d'Artagnan's eyes widen in surprise, it was Porthos' undoing and he collapsed onto the bed, rocking and howling in his merriment. Aramis, suitably attired now, rose from his position on the floor and frowned in mock offence.

"That is not the first time I have heard you use that colourful expression today, Athos. I did not think you knew such words! You can hardly blame it on a pin now and I bid you remember who else is in the room. This is hardly the place for barrack room language," he scolded. He waited for the rolling of the eyes in disdain by way of response, but it never occurred.

"Enough!" Athos beseeched them. "What is this? Victimise Athos hour?"

He tried to regain control of the situation, but it did not work. D'Artagnan started to choke on a mouthful of wine; Aramis made some fussing noises and slapped the musketeer Captain several times on the back; Milady joined in with a characteristic smirk whilst Porthos, who was attempting to exercise some semblance of restraint, merely gave way to another loud guffaw.

"We'll need more than an hour!" he cried.

It was another few minutes before order was finally restored. Athos and Aramis had the chairs closest to the fire but, now dried and dressed and supping wine, they felt warmer. The others gathered with them and the recounting of the day's events began.

D'Artagnan and Porthos explained how they had overcome suspicion and resentment to make new friends amongst the villagers, learning of their treatment at the hands of Desmarais and his men, and how the extra taxes were exacted. They spoke briefly of the day of the so-called 'uprising' and its aftermath, making it clear to Athos that they still did not know all the pertinent details, especially those relating to Sylvie and Raoul. Even had they known, it was not something they would have raised in front of Milady anyway.

From their testimonies and the entries into the book that Athos had found, there was enough evidence to accuse Desmarais of fraudulent behaviour in the first instance. When called to account, it would be interesting to hear his supposed defence for the monies had certainly not been ploughed into the maintenance or refurbishment of the chateau, no matter what he claimed. As yet, he did not know that they were fully aware that the excess taxes were being used to pay the Spanish. To all intents and purposes, it had been a lengthy but beneficial day for Porthos and d'Artagnan.

News of the discovery at the hunting lodge was met with a grim satisfaction and the realisation that their task here could soon be realised, once the visitors had arrived and their usefulness ascertained.

That only left Milady to deliver her news.

"The Baron has proposed marriage and I have accepted."

A stunned silence met her announcement.

"But you're …." D'Artagnan was unsure how to proceed.

"Still married to Athos," she finished for him. "Yes, I am fully aware of that. I shall not go through with it, of course."

"Of course," d'Artagnan murmured.

"'Asn't stopped you before, 'as it, _Duchess?_ " Porthos said with little humour.

"Naturally," she responded, immediately on the defensive. "Those alignments have been borne of necessity." She looked directly at her husband. "I do not intend for a wedding to take place. I thought that to accede to his wishes would keep him happy, thereby allowing you the freedom to investigate him more freely if needed."

Athos studied her, trying to gauge whether she was telling the truth or not. He decided that she was.

"Thank you. The distraction you provided today has already been invaluable," Athos said quietly, wondering what gain she had identified for herself for he still could not believe in her willingness to help them. She had to have an ulterior motive, though what that might be he could not see it himself at this juncture.

"All I ask is that when Desmarais makes his grand announcement at dinner this evening, as is his plan, you act surprised. You will not have heard it from me first." Milady looked at each of them in turn, awaiting their nod of understanding and agreement.

III

Desmarais was dressed in his finery for the evening's dinner which he faced with mixed emotions. He knew Athos and Aramis could have found nothing wrong with the account books that he had delivered to them in the library but the knowledge that the pair had ridden out and found the hunting lodge, by accident or design, filled him with trepidation. What if they had discovered his private documents hidden there? Had they realised that the place had been prepared for visitors and did they wonder who that might be? He desperately clung to the vain hope that they were still none the wiser.

"Don't be so naïve," he reprimanded himself. "They know you are up to something or they would never have come here in the first place, not four renowned _brothers_ of the musketeer regiment." He managed to say the word 'brothers' as if it were the worst insult imaginable. "You only have to look at where they are now in their exalted positions to see that something's afoot. Then there's Athos; living under my nose all this time, spying on me. For now, I shall enjoy the evening and announce my good news. I cannot wait to see their expressions when I tell them of my impending nuptials, especially Aramis and Athos, the way they have been flirting and behaving around my Ann." He preened in front of a large looking glass, happy with what he saw until a thought struck him and his eyes narrowed as his mind raced.

Why should Athos be making advances upon the woman he, Demarais, was intending to marry? The little scene he had witnessed between them had appeared so intimate and yet the man was purportedly grieving, hell bent on taking revenge on those who had been responsible for the deaths of his woman and child? He had already killed two of the Baron's men and even Benoit seemed to have a fear of him. Was he thinking of replacing her so swiftly? It did not make sense but then there was little of this Athos character that he could comprehend.

A knock sounded at his door and, turning, he bid the newcomer enter. Benoit appeared and closed the door softly behind him.

"The Minister has sent word that his secretary will not be joining you at dinner. He is apologetic but having been caught in the rain and following on swiftly from his previous illness, he is feeling unwell and thinks it is more prudent if he takes to his bed to encourage a speedy recovery."

"And you believe that?" Desmarais asked.

"Not really. He did not appear bothered when they left the lodge nor as they rode back. He could have taken chill since then, I suppose …."

"But you think it highly unlikely," the Baron confirmed. He tapped his front teeth with a forefinger as he thought. "Now what is he up to?" He snapped out of his reverie to face Benoit. "Watch his room whilst we are at dinner; I wouldn't put anything past him. In fact, you'd better be in place now; he might not wait until then to make his move."

IV

Athos waited until the others had gone down to dinner before he slipped out of his room and down the servants' staircase at the end of the corridor. It brought him down to another corridor that led one way to the kitchens; he paused and listened to the head cook shouting orders and the clatter of pans, indicating a hive of industry. He went in the opposite direction to a door that opened onto the back courtyard and waited in the shadows, watching and listening for any movement, but all was silent. It did not seem as if Desmarais' retainers were worried about working any longer than need be.

Porthos had told them of the men the baron kept for a show of force and that they were supposedly living at the chateau but there had been no sign of them since he and his brothers had arrived. There was a possibility that they were housed in one of the buildings that enclosed the yard, so he had to be careful in making his way to the stable undetected. However, most of the windows remained in darkness. Looking up at the night sky, there was a half moon and plentiful stars that were intermittently masked by scudding clouds. Although not raining at present – for which he was thankful – it was still very cold, the ground was wet and there remained the threat of further downpours.

He moved stealthily, keeping to the shadows as he circumnavigated the yard until he reached the relative safety of the stable. When he and Aramis returned in the late afternoon, he had ascertained where the stable boys slept. To his relief, they were treated well, having the use of an adjoining room rather than having to bed down in an empty stall, so no other humans were around as he made his way down the line of horses until he reached Têtu.

He and the horse seemed to have come to a wary understanding and tolerance of each other and Athos was forced to admit that he had actually enjoyed the afternoon's ride on the headstrong animal. Now, though, the horse was not enamoured with the notion of going out again as Athos laid the blanket and saddle over his back. Têtu threw up his head in disgust and emitted a warning snort.

"Hush now, you bad tempered beast," Athos said softly, reaching for his head and stroking him gently before offering him a piece of apple he had cut up in readiness. "There's more where that came from if you do what I ask," he whispered, continuing to stroke the dark head and, in a rare show of affection, planting a kiss on the nose. The horse snorted again, this time in muted response to the man's low voice, and bent to nuzzle the pocket from where the first piece of apple had materialised.

Athos gave him another as he set about finishing his task. From inside his doublet he took out pieces of string and sacking, the cut parts of an oat bag he had appropriated when in the stables earlier and, bribing the horse with more apple pieces, set about tying the sacking to the hoofs to muffle the sound.

"Just until we're out of the yard and then I'll take them off again, promise," he said as the horse began to protest.

Checking that all was quiet in the yard, he picked up an unlit lantern and quickly led the animal out of the stable, deciding not to mount until out through the archway and some way from the chateau. First, he kept his word and removed the sacking, stuffing the pieces and the ties into the saddle bag in case he was able to return under cover of darkness and needed to quieten all sounds of his arrival.

The horse snorted.

"You're welcome," Athos responded as he pulled himself up into the saddle and fondled the animal's ears, which promptly produced yet another appreciative snort. "I can't believe we are having this conversation," Athos muttered under his breath as he turned the horse's head in the direction they had taken a few hours earlier. "No funny business now," he ordered as he bent along the animal's neck to speak softly into its right ear. "No breaking into a gallop, not in the dark. You know the route so just take it slowly and steadily and we'll both get there in one piece. I have a light but we're only going to use it if absolutely necessary."

The animal picked its way across the meadow, sure-footed and reliable. It was Athos who, in the darkness, missed the opening of the trail into the forest on his first attempt and had to ride first one way and then the other until a cloud fortuitously moved and the weak moonlight gave him just enough visibility to spot it. As he entered, he turned back to look at the chateau. A handful of upper windows were illuminated by candles but the rest of the building lay in darkness, any light obscured at the rear by the outbuildings and courtyard. His mind was playing tricks for, as another cloud passed, he thought he detected some movement between him and the chateau but as soon as he saw it, the moon was again obscured. It was enough, though, for his senses to be on alert and he discounted any possibility of making use of the lantern.

He now had to rely on memory alone as he tried to recall how long he and Aramis had ridden in the afternoon. Some allowance had to be made for his slower speed now and he briefly berated himself for embarking on such a foolish and reckless undertaking in the darkness. Still, he came upon the fork in the road sooner than he had expected and, taking the right branch of it, he rode until it began to narrow considerably, at which point he stopped the horse and slid from its back.

"Don't want to miss the track to the lodge," he said by way of explanation to the horse as he purposefully kept close to the right-hand bushes and trees. Leading the animal with his left hand, he drew his sword with his right and moved slowly forward.

He was surprised that he found the track to the lodge so easily and moved through its narrow confines with ease. He had not come to the clearing before he led Tétu off the track and into the trees to tether him there. Feeding him the last piece of apple, he patted the horse's neck.

"You stay here out of trouble. The only sound you are to make is in warning to me, you understand?"

The horse nodded vehemently; Athos merely sighed.

"As if you really had my back! What have I come to that I converse with a horse and expect it to be my comrade-in-arms!"

He set off, pausing to look back at the animal whilst he could still see it. Têtu was grazing on the lush grass sweetened by the afternoon's rain.

"Just as I thought!" Athos complained softly. "Forgotten about me already; too busy eating. At least Porthos can do both at the same time!"

His heart started pounding as he approached the clearing and, sheathing his sword, dropped behind a bush. Things had changed considerably in the few hours since he and Aramis had left the lodge. A horse whinnying caught his attention and, at first, he thought it might be Têtu but the sound was borne on the wind towards him from the outbuilding. Two horses were sheltered there, their saddles removed and nowhere to be seen. The owners had probably seen fit to take them into the lodge itself. He vaguely hoped that Têtu did not hear the animals and give away his presence by responding. Then Athos remembered the wind direction. If his mount heard them, perhaps they would not hear him.

Candle light showed through the windows of the lodge itself and Athos knew, from having been inside, that the occupants were in the main room. He had to know who was in there. Drawing his sword again, he kept low and crossed the ground silently to the left of the lodge, trusting that the horses wold neither pick up his scent nor hear him; perhaps they, too, were more intent upon eating than paying attention. Crouching, he eased his way to the nearest window that exuded light and, little by little, raised his head so that he could see over the sill.

One man, clad from head to foot in black, stood with his back to Athos and obviously deep in conversation with another who was not visible from this angle; he was probably seated by the fire. The standing man was very animated, gesticulating wildly with a goblet in one hand, its contents splashing up and over its rim, but he seemed oblivious to it. His voice rose, the tone not one of anger.

The cut of the clothes had been enough to tell Athos who they were for the style was unmistakable but the few decipherable words that reached him through the window were additional proof.

The men were Spanish.

Now was the sensible time to withdraw. With Desmarais entertaining at his chateau, the meeting might be held later that night or in the early morning, so Athos had to get back to inform the others.

He had only retreated one step from the window, his eyes still on it, when the sickening blow made contact with the back of his head. For a split second, his vision was assaulted by swathes of bright, flashing lights but then agonising pain exploded through his skull. Unable to stop himself, the forward momentum from the attack threw him off balance, causing him to crash into the side of the lodge before he hit the ground heavily and lay there, senseless.


	36. Chapter 36

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **The third chapter for this week (and then I might need to head for home and a lie down!) I am so glad that you liked the humour of the last chapter, be it Milady and the bedroom scene or Athos talking to his horse. I don't know about you, but I was sorely in need of some respite from the tension, especially as it increases again from here on in! (Slight give away about this chapter there.) It was also important that we see the four 'as they were' in the early days before their responsibilities took them in different directions. Athos needed a little reminder of what has been missing for him and his 'chat' with T**_ _ **ê**_ _ **tu was a time when he did not have to be wary about what he said, even to his friends**_

 _ **On to today's offering then. I wait to see what you think. Thank you for ALL the feedback that you have given me this week.**_

CHAPTER 36

I

Aramis was standing at the window of his room looking out onto the land at the front of the chateau. He did not respond to the light knock on his door which was immediately followed by the sound of it opening to admit both Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"Well?" he said, turning to face them.

"His bed's not been slept in," d'Artagnan confirmed, having come from Athos' room.

"He did say as how he might be there all night. It depends if anyone showed up," Porthos reminded them, trying not to look or sound as worried as he felt.

"Is it just coincidence that we don't know exactly where he is at this moment and the activity within the chateau suddenly increases with daylight?" d'Artagnan asked.

No-one could think of a suitable – or reassuring – reply.

"Any more?" Porthos looked directly at Aramis.

"Not since those three rode in about thirty minutes ago. They approached from the front and went straight round to the courtyard."

"That's three plus – what? Five men of fightin' age and fitness working within the 'ouse? That's eight that we know of."

"With Benoit, that makes nine," Aramis added, "even if we have not seen him about since early yesterday."

"The villagers reckoned at least twenty men are kept by Desmarais. Where're the rest?" Porthos wondered.

"We have to be prepared and assume that they are already here somewhere or will be soon," Aramis said grimly.

"I wish we knew what the Baron was up to. We are expected downstairs to break our fast soon and I do not relish the thought of going down there unarmed," d'Artagnan said.

It was inappropriate for a guest to bear arms in a host's house and they had all dutifully set theirs aside on entering the chateau, although Porthos had insisted that they be allowed to keep their weapons in their rooms.

"You reckon the three of us can take on twenty?" Porthos asked with a mirthless laugh.

"No, but we could be a match for nine," d'Artagnan pointed out. He shrugged. "Always hoping that the other eleven don't materialise from somewhere and Desmarais decides to join in. Then I think we might be a little outnumbered!"

"Oh I don't know, Milady could dispense with a few and perhaps Athos will return from his nocturnal ride just in time. Five against twenty? I'd say the odds are improving all the time," Aramis said glibly as he rummaged in his bag. "Ah, got you!" and he held aloft a small dagger which he then proceeded to slide down inside his right boot. "I haven't done this for a while."

He caught the others watching him and held wide his arms. "Come on, gentlemen, don't disappoint me and say that you are unable to do the same!"

The trio grinned at each other and, within minutes, all were similarly equipped.

"We still don't know why though," d'Artgnan began, suddenly serious as they headed for the door. "Why all this activity? Does this have anything to do with Athos not being here?"

Aramis paused. "I think it has everything to do with the expected visitors and I suspect our being here involves us a lot more than we yet realise."

"What about Milady? Is she in any danger too?" d'Aratagnan persisted.

"I'd like to think not," Aramis reasoned. "Whilst her real identity remains secret, she is safe. He believes her to be an aristocrat and a helpless female one at that. If he's doing this to get at her money – which we all strongly believe – he will not let any harm befall her."

"Come on then," said Porthos as he opened the door. "Let's go down and see if we can find out anything."

II

They were the first to the dining hall and moved to what had become their customary places since their arrival. They sat in an uneasy silence, watching as a couple of young serving girls entered, carrying a platter in each hand and stood waiting. Their nervousness could have been accounted for by them never having waited at table before – the three friends did not recognise them – or there was a more sinister reason. An older woman bustled in with another laden tray, set it down and arranged its load on the table within reach of the men. She issued a string of instructions to the girls and bade them hurry as she went out.

An old man then entered and started to fill their cups with a small beer*. He had served them before and he did so now, in silence and not meeting their eyes.

"You 'ave different helpers this mornin'," Porthos said conversationally but the old fellow did not respond. "Where are the men who waited on us before?"

"They're out an' about," the old man growled.

"Oh? Doing what?" d'Artagnan tried this time.

"This an' that," was the limit of the reply as the servant left the room.

The three exchanged concerned glances.

"The younger men are definitely involved in something then," Aramis said.

The door opened and Milady entered, wearing an elaborate, dark green dress, its skirt rustling as she moved.

She sat down, looking quickly around her to confirm that there was no one else with them. Leaning forward, she kept her voice low.

"What is going on? There is a lot of coming and going around the place which was not so before. Have the people for whom Desmarais is waiting arrived here or are they expected?"

"What makes you ask?" d'Artagnan spoke up.

"I heard a lot of horses in the yard and looked out at them. There must have been at least eight with their riders. I saw Desmarais go out and speak to them. Four dismounted and left their horses with the stable boys while they came into the chateau. The other four rode off again."

"Did you recognise any of them?" Aramis wanted to know and, when she shook her head, he added, "They're in addition to the serving staff then. That makes at least twelve. I wonder where they have come from."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, casting her eyes around the table. "And where's Athos? Is he not back?"

They swiftly told her what they knew and had seen, and were about to furnish her with a warning when Desmarais walked in, rubbing his hands together and smiling unnaturally.

"Good morning, my love," he greeted Milady, planting a kiss on the top of her head as he walked past her to his seat.

The others saw her school her features from revulsion to a seductive smile.

"And a good morning to you, Auguste," she purred.

He nodded a greeting to the men once he was seated and they responded in kind but as they all began to break their fast, the tension around the table was palpable and conversation at a minimum.

"What plans do you have for today, dearest?" Desmarais asked at one point.

Milady thought for a moment and then smiled sweetly. "I was so looking forward to another ride together, Auguste. We went south yesterday and, from an upstairs window I saw a vast stretch of forest land to the north. Perhaps we could ride there today?"

Aramis tried his hardest not to look at her. She knew that was the direction of the hunting lodge. What was her game? Following hard on that thought, he wondered if it were a ruse to search for Athos. If she were to find him, it would prove their story of his recurring illness to be a lie and would consequently make their continued stay at the chateau untenable. Although they had enough proof of Desmarais' treachery, it meant that they would have to show their hand a little earlier than planned.

As it happened, Desmarais took the initiative and chose to be the first to reveal _his_ hand.

"I see that Secretary Allard has not joined us again; I trust he is no worse?" He hoped that he sounded suitably concerned.

"Thank you, Baron, for asking," Aramis said. "He passed a somewhat restless night and, whilst feeling better, he is very tired, so I advised him to rest a little longer."

A strange expression crossed Desmarais' face. It was only there for an instant, but Aramis was sure that he had not imagined it and, as a result, felt the stirrings of alarm, not for the first time that morning. He caught Porthos' eye and the big man frowned with a similar unease.

"Our ride together?" Milady prompted.

"I am so sorry, my dear, but our ride will have to be postponed. I have some business to which I must attend and some of it involves my other guests." He waved a hand to encompass the three men who sat at the table. The smile he ingratiatingly bestowed upon them did not reach his eyes.

"Perhaps I could ride out with your head groom?" she suggested.

"No!" Desmarais said, a little more sharply than he had intended. His smile definitely softened for her. "I am afraid I have tasked him with something else. That would be impossible and, before you even ask, I would not entrust your safety to a mere stable lad, nor is there any question of my letting you ride out alone.

"I suggest, therefore, that you retire to your room after we have eaten. I shall send one of the women up with refreshments and a selection of volumes from the library that I have always found fascinating. Or perhaps you wish to write some letters? Share our good news with friends? I shall make sure that you receive everything that you require."

So that was that! Milady was to be banished to her room after the meal, not allowed to freely move around the ground floor and certainly not permitted to leave the chateau, especially to ride in a northerly direction.

It begged a question. What did Desmarais not want her to see or hear?

As the meal drew to an uncomfortable end, a young man entered, went straight to the Baron, bent and whispered a message. Try as she might, Milady could not determine anything of what was said despite being the nearest; the voice was kept deliberately low. The message wrought an immediate change in its recipient, however. Desmarais smiled more convincingly this time and his mood lightened to a suppressed excitement. He nodded at the young man who immediately turned on his heel and left the room as swiftly as he had come.

The guests were all apprehensive now and it was Aramis who sought the advantage.

"Business that involves us, Baron? What can that be? My Secretary and I went through your books yesterday and found all to be in order, just as you said they would be. That is what brought us here, that and the temptation to leave Paris for a while. We would depart today and move on to the next estate but I am afraid we need to impose upon your hospitality a little longer whilst Emil recovers fully."

"Of course, Minister," Desmarais said smoothly as he reached for another pastry, "and where did you plan to visit next? Which of my fellow nobles is to be in receipt of an unannounced visit?"

Porthos and d'Artagnan looked at Aramis nervously. Desmarais was wearing a smug expression on his face; he obviously suspected that there was no inspection of other nobles.

Aramis gazed at him for a while, his expression unreadable and then he flashed his disarming grin.

"Our plan is to move on to the estate of Baron Leondre Voland at Les Andelys.** I fully intend to combine that business with personal pleasure. I have long wanted to visit the area and to see the ruins of the magnificent Chateau-Gaillard built by Richard Coeur de Lyon. It is unfortunate that our current blessed King's grandfather saw fit to have much of it demolished about fifty years ago but I can appreciate that it was the scene of much strife.

"I read somewhere that three thousand or more were employed in the construction of the castle but those workers needed a place of worship. I gather the result, Saint Sauveur church, is worth a visit too. It is strange, do you not think, that a place dedicated to the glory of God and needed for the care of souls took four years to build and a vast place built to protect the men themselves took only one?"

Aramis took a sip from his cup, his heart thundering as he wondered how much more of his extra preparation might be needed and desperately hoping that he could remember it properly. He sensed his brothers relax.

Desmarais studied Aramis thoughtfully as he slowly chewed his food and swallowed. "I said you would find nothing wrong with those books."

It was said almost as a challenge and Aramis could not resist it. "I agree that _those_ books were acceptable."

If Desmarais had been about to say something, he was distracted by the door opening yet again as the young man they had seen earlier re-entered, closely followed by two more colleagues. The three took up strategic positions around the room and no-one could fail to notice that they were all heavily armed.

Desmarais glanced pointedly at Milady. "If you've finished, my dear?"

The other three, having come to know what she was like over the years, saw her struggle to curb her tongue. She was not used to being ordered around in such a manner. Were she to object or make one of her usual caustic comments, she could ruin everything.

She didn't. Instead, with theatrical fluttering of the eyelashes and a slight pout, she rose from her seat, the men respectfully standing with her.

"Of course, Auguste. Perhaps it is just as well that we are not going for a ride this morning. I feel sure that I have a headache coming on for I did not sleep well last night, so I shall take this opportunity to have a little rest."

Demarais had the decency to look concerned. "Can I get you anything, my dear? I would not have you suffering at all."

She smiled reassuringly. "I will be fine in a while and then I shall think of those letters. Perhaps we could consider taking a ride this afternoon when you have concluded your business. In the meantime, if you don't mind, I do not want to be disturbed for at least an hour. Longer would be preferable."

"Anything you say, my dear."

"Gentlemen." She acknowledged the other three men at the table.

Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan all had the same thought simultaneously. What was she planning for it was out of character for her to acquiesce quite so readily?

They were not to know that, rather than heading straight to her room, she had repaired to the top of the stairs and concealed herself around the corner that led to the rooms they were occupying. That afforded her a clear view of the door into the dining room and the main hall. She would wait patiently and see what transpired next. Almost sub-consciously, her hand smoothed her skirts so that she could feel the presence of the small dagger strapped to her right thigh.

Minutes passed and four more armed men appeared in the hall, two standing either side of the main entrance – ostensibly to prevent anyone from leaving – and the other two disappearing into the room she had just left. Including Desmarais, that meant six men in there as well as d'Artagnan, Porthos and Aramis and, as far as she was aware, the three brothers had no weapons. She did not doubt that they were capable of putting up a good fight with their fists but not in the face of such obvious weaponry.

She would continue to watch …. and wait. Her vantage point was unlikely to be compromised for she had put off any servants attending her and, if they had any sense or Desmarais had issued clear instructions, they were not likely to be roaming the corridors with whatever was about to unfold on the ground floor.

"The Duchess 'as gone so you're free to start talkin' this other business," Porthos growled, weighing up their possibilities in their rapidly deteriorating situation.

"I would prefer it if we adjourned to the main reception room. It's so much larger than this one and can accommodate more people," Desmarais stood, all semblance of the genial host, however strained, completely gone.

"You expectin' a party?" Porthos asked.

"A few more," Desmarais answered guardedly,

"And if we said we would prefer to remain here?" d'Artagnan queried.

It was a mere dip of the head by the Baron but his men reacted immediately as they drew their pistols and aimed them at the three friends.

"If we have outstayed our welcome, Baron, you only had to say!" Aramis quipped as calmly as he could. Raising his hands above his head, he slowly rose.

"Guess this means we're adjournin' to the main reception room after all," Porthos reasoned as both he and d'Artagnan got to their feet.

Milady watched as they were escorted at gunpoint across the hall and into the reception room where they had all met only two days before. Teeth worrying at the inside of her bottom lip, she contemplated her next move. Seconds passed before she began systematically to go through their rooms, beginning with that of Porthos, and collected all their weapons. It took her three trips to take swords, pistols and ammunition to the point where she had concealed herself and quietly lay them out. By the time she had finished, a small arsenal had been set out near the top of the stairs and she viewed it with grim satisfaction. There were several pistols – not her weapon of choice but she knew how to load and fire one – and there was an assortment of swords and additional daggers; enough for her needs.

If Demarais was about to initiate some kind of war, she was prepared.

III

The group of men made their way into the reception room. D'Artagnan, who was bringing up the rear of the three friends, was obviously not moving fast enough as one of Demarais' men pushed him hard in the back, causing him to stumble. Furniture had been moved, untidily grouped around the walls so that an expanse of floor was cleared. Four hard chairs were positioned in the middle of this newly acquired space.

Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan were forced to sit and then bound to the chairs.

"What do you think you are doing?" Aramis demanded angrily as Desmarais entered the room and stood, staring hard at them, his arms folded defiantly.

"I thought of asking you the same thing, Minister," the Baron spat back.

"I don't know what you are talking about." Aramis was not about to divulge anything; he was going to leave that to the traitorous man before him.

"Really?" Desmarais said contemptuously. "Look here," and he indicated towards the empty chair at the end of the row. "There seems to be one of you missing." He palmed his forehead in a mocking gesture of remembrance. "How could I forget Secretary Allard? Why don't I invite him to join us from his sickbed and he can tell me himself how he is faring?"

The three captives said nothing and worked hard at remaining expressionless; they had not survived for as long as they had in their work by revealing anything in an unguarded moment. Below the surface was another matter though and they feared for their missing friend whom they had not seen for nearly fourteen hours now.

"I would be wasting my time, wouldn't I?" Desmarais sneered at them. "For I would not find him in his bed, would I?"

At that, the door opened and Benoit, grim-faced, walked in and nodded towards his employer.

"I don't need to send out that invitation. It seems that he has decided to join us after all," Desmarais was displaying a sadistic pleasure in what was happening.

Three sets of concerned dark eyes turned towards the doorway as two strangers entered, their clothing and appearance at once suggesting Spanish heritage. A brief exchange of greeting passed between them and Desmarais and then they stood aside for more newcomers.

It was not so much the build and hardness of the two men in the Baron's employment that attracted the attention of Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan. It was more the sight of their unconscious brother hanging limply between the men, head bowed and one of his arm's around each of their necks as they supported his weight and dragged him across the room to dump him without ceremony on the fourth chair. The ropes, this time, were necessary to hold Athos in position for, without them, he would have slid to the floor.

D'Artagnan suppressed a gasp, Porthos gave a low rumble of suppressed anger and Aramis struggled to maintain an impassive air, for it was plain to see that Athos had received a vicious beating at the hands of those who had captured him and there was no telling the extent of his injuries from a distance.

 _ *** Small or light beer – 16**_ _ **th**_ _ **and 17**_ _ **th**_ _ **century drink of small alcoholic content (0.5 to less than 2%), a good accompaniment to breakfast!**_

 _ **** With the exception of Baron Leondre Voland (entirely my creation), everything else that Aramis says in those two paragraphs about Les Andelys is as stated.**_


	37. Chapter 37

_**Greetings, all! Thank you so much for all the great feedback on the last chapter. Firstly, I'm sitting here having uploaded this - and don't ask me what I have done or how I did it - but I seem to have succeeded in deleting the last 400 words of this chapter! They have ceased to be and will now constitute the opening of chapter 38 - when I have rewritten it! Just didn't want any of you to feel short-changed by this chapter which is, admittedly, shorter than usual but I'm hoping you'll forgive my ineptitude and take the view that any update is better than nothing.**_

 _ **So what is Milady planning to do?**_

CHAPTER 37

I

Milady was at the top of the stairs, a quick calculation running through her mind. Five men had escorted Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan into the reception room, followed by Desmarais. He did not appear to be armed but that could have been his intention – not to arouse suspicion too early whilst at breakfast, but that did not mean he did not have some sort of dagger concealed about his person or one or more firearms secreted in the room where they were now being held. That could have been a significant reason for the relocation.

She had heard the commotion that accompanied the arrival of the next group of men: Benoit, two Spanish-looking gentlemen and a further pair half-carrying an unconscious Athos. Her stab of concern was momentary. They would not be dragging him into the situation if he were no longer alive so he could be expected to regain consciousness at some point but, as she planned her next move, she knew that she could not count upon him being very effective when the time came to release the _Inseparables._

Ann allowed herself a wry smile. She was talking of 'when' they were released; there was no allowance for 'if' in her vocabulary and only one person who could affect a rescue of the four men – her! At that point, the odds against them would be seriously reduced. Speed was of the essence for there was no knowing what Desmarais' plans were for the men and, although she did not want to dwell upon the thought, she had been too far away to ascertain just how badly injured Athos was. If he needed medical attention, that added another layer of urgency.

She looked at the array of weapons at her feet and frowned; perhaps it had not been the wisest decision on her part to lay them there, not if she were to put the next stage of her plan into action. There were several daggers but they were large and undoubtedly heavier than the one she favoured. Sighing, she raised her skirt and retrieved her own weapon from its strapping. It might be smaller and lighter but it was no less deadly. Holding it behind her back, she screwed up her eyes and feigned a few sobs as she stepped into view.

"Help me!" she cried out, making sure that she had the attention of the two men who were standing inside the main door.

"What's the matter?" one of them demanded rudely. His colleague slapped him on the upper arm.

"Show a bit o' respect. That's the Duchess staying with the Baron. You can't talk to 'er like that."

The other man muttered something inaudible but Milady could easily guess from his stance and expression that it was an unpleasant comment about the aristocracy.

The second man stepped forward and looked up at her. "What's the matter, Your Grace?"

"There is …. something … large running about my room. Get rid of it … please," she added as a plaintive afterthought, her hand gesticulating wildly in the direction of the men's rooms and hoping that the man to whom she spoke was not normally of the household and consequently unaware that her room was in the opposite direction.

He glanced at his colleague, unsure as to what to do. "Should I ….?"

"It's probably only a little mouse, Albert," the other said derisively.

"But the Baron wouldn't like to know she was in distress, asking for 'elp and we just ignored her," Albert reasoned.

"We're supposed to be guarding the door."

"An' you can do that for a little while; just as long as it takes me to catch whatever it is. Not as if we're goin' to be attacked now is it? They've got the four of 'em in there an' all tied up. Can't imagine an army turnin' up to rescue 'em in the next few minutes. Besides," and he paused to leer briefly in Milady's direction, "who knows 'ow thankful she might be when I've taken care of her little problem."

The first man laughed coarsely. "You're a bit out of your depth with that one but I'd like to see you try."

They were making no attempt to moderate their voices and Milady could hear every word. It was a genuine struggle to maintain her act of helplessness for long enough. "Just when I was beginning to feel sorry for what I was going to do to you," she whispered to herself. Then, as her gallant rescuer took to the stairs and came towards her, she retreated around the corner and spread her skirts out in a poorly disguised attempt to conceal the weapons.

"Now then, Duchess, where's this …?" he began as he came after her. He stopped dead when he saw the weapons on the ground. He frowned. "What the …?"

He had no chance to finish what he was going to say as Milady's right hand thrust forward, embedding the small dagger into his heart. His eyes registered a brief look of surprise but there was no pain. He merely grunted softly and pitched forward so that she fought to support his weight as she lowered him as quietly as possible to the ground.

"Great conversationalist you are," she said scathingly as she rolled him onto his back, his glassy eyes staring at the ceiling. Pulling out the weapon, she wiped its bloodied blade on his clothing.

"What's that thumping? Everything under control up there?" a voice shouted to them.

She fixed a smile on her face and stepped out to the top of the stairs. "Oh yes," she simpered. "Your friend is so brave. As soon as he made the top step, he saw it and threw himself at it but he missed it. That must be what you heard. Now he's gone chasing it along the corridor and into the last room." She fanned herself dramatically with her left hand. "Thank goodness it is no longer in my chamber."

The man on the ground floor rolled his eyes. "Bloody nobility!"

"Bloody indeed," Milady said softly. "Your turn next!"

II

"What do you think you're doin' treatin' the Minister's secretary like this?" Porthos growled.

Desmarais rolled his eyes. "Oh come now, General. Stop playing games with me. You can drop the pretence." He nodded towards the unconscious man. "I believe I am correct in stating that he is no secretary of any sort. He is Olivier d'Athos, former Captain of the King's élite regiment of Musketeers. The four of you served together, gaining quite a reputation for yourselves and are known by the romantic name of the _Inseparables._ "

The three men remained silent.

"But, of course he has been posing as a landowner west of here and meddling in the affairs of my tenants; spying on me, no less. I suggest, Minister, that it is time you started being honest with me and explain why you are really here."

"Honest!" Porthos exclaimed, his derision audible. "You wouldn't know honesty if it came up and hit you! Why don't you start by telling us what you think you've been doing?"

Desmarais rounded on Porthos and raised his hand as if to strike the big man but seemed to think better of it for his hand sank to his side. "You are in no position to give the orders here, General. You can begin by telling me why you and Captain d'Artagnan here saw fit to bother my tenants."

"Simple," Porthos said. "You've raised taxes twice and deliberately withheld the second lot from the French crown. You've squeezed your tenants until they're goin' hungry and when they've tried to make a quiet protest, your men 'ave overreacted an' gone in heavy, killin' some of 'em – innocent men, women an' children."

Desmarais' expression showed clearly how little he cared. "The Minister here and his so-called secretary have been through my accounts and found nothing amiss. You only have the word of some misbegotten peasants against mine. I think we all know here who would be believed." He looked around at his men and was satisfied with the nods of affirmation that resulted.

"So what have you done with the money?" Aramis demanded. "Given it as a gift to your Spanish guests here?" He was not yet prepared to let the Baron know that he and Athos had found the written evidence secreted in the hunting lodge.

"Do you really think I am going to answer that?" Desmarais asked.

Aramis shrugged. "Of course. You are a man of such unbounded arrogance that I am sure you would wish to tell us everything. Far be it for you to make a mere confession. I think you would want to boast about everything you have achieved before you kill us."

"Now there's a comforting thought," Porthos muttered.

"My dear Minister, you seem to have misunderstood. I have absolutely no intention of killing you," Desmarais insisted.

"I'm relieved to hear it," d'Artagnan added softly.

"No, the only one I shall have great delight in killing is him," and here he pointed at Athos. "He is of no use to me whatsoever and I hate him for his deception. I repeat, he has spied on me and we all know that death is the inevitable outcome for a spy!"

Aramis was not about to confirm or deny Athos' role as Janus.

"You, Minister, on the other hand, are going to be handed over to my Spanish colleagues here and taken to the Spanish held north where you will be encouraged to answer their questions. I will allow your two 'brothers' here to accompany you for I have no doubt that they are also a fount of much information."

"You're enjoyin' this," Porthos commented as the Baron looked very pleased with himself.

"But of course," Desmarais said, giving his prisoners a mock bow.

"They know in Paris where we have come. How are you going to explain our disappearance when people come here searching for us?" asked d'Artagnan.

"Ah but you are leaving here later today and the Duchess and I will stand on the steps to wave you goodbye. As far as I am concerned, you are heading towards Les Andelys, Minister. That is where you claimed to be heading next, was it not? If something were to happen to you beyond my estate and you were to be missing, I can hardly be held responsible. It must be a band of thieves, hell-bent upon mischief and a threat to the innocent traveller.

"In a few days, the sad discovery of a body along that main route will be discovered and I shall willingly put myself forward to identify the remains." He adopted a tone of exaggerated grief. "I will scarce be able to contain my emotion when I recognise the clothing worn by your friend here. It will, naturally, be the deceased Secretary to France's First Minister. Did the beasts have to treat the dead man with such disdain? Such injuries! Were they really necessary? How he must have suffered in his final moments!"

"How touchin'," Porthos said scathingly, anything to hide his concern about Athos being totally expendable.

"You've thought about this," Aramis began. "So what do you hope to gain?" He watched Desmarais carefully. His current intense dislike of the man was reaching new heights.

"Isn't it obvious? With such activity to the north, I want to ensure that my estate is unharmed when the Spanish invade," Desmarais explained.

"And if they don't?" Porthos demanded. "We've already beaten them back decisively once; we can do it again."

"They retreated because they were short of funds -"

"So you thought you'd help them out," d'Artagnan interrupted. "Maybe I'm missing something here but I doubt the money you could raise from your impoverished tenants would be enough to fund a Spanish army for more than …" His voice trailed off as he thought for a suitable number. "A day or two at most? I'm not sure what you expect to achieve, other than bribing the enemy to leave you alone. Strange way to go about things!"

"The tenants are immaterial now. There is the widowed Duchess and her fortune ….."

Aramis threw back his head and laughed. "So that's why the courtship has been so hurried. I thought there had to be a reason behind it." Should he tell the Baron that there was nothing from the 'bogus' marriage and that what she had accrued from other previous arrangements had long gone? He decided that was another gem of information he would hold back for the time being.

"But even she pales into insignificance when compared with handing you over to the Spanish, Minister. You three must be privy to all the strategy and defence plans for northern France, if not the whole country."

"You assume wrongly if you think we will co-operate with the enemy," Aramis said grimly as he stared at the two Spaniards who had stood silently to one side throughout the conversation.

Desmarais shrugged. "That is not my concern. I will have handed you over and it is up to the Spanish to _encourage_ you to impart the information you have. How they do that is entirely up to them but I have heard that their methods are often ingenious and very painful."

Porthos growled and strained at his bindings, a lengthy rope wound twice about him and the chair back. It was interesting that their captors had used different methods in restraining them. Aramis' hands were secured individually to the back legs of his chair whilst D'Artagnan's hands were tied behind him. He had spent the entire time flexing and relaxing his fists and generally wriggling, having quickly realised that the binding felt loose, the knot far from secure. Athos was tied in the same manner as Porthos, but that was more to prevent him from collapsing to the floor than anything else.

"Aren't you at least going to introduce us to your Spanish friends?" Aramis asked, his smile as he gazed at the two black-clad men never reaching his eyes.

"I wasn't going to for it matters little to you but they certainly know who you are," Desmarais said.

"I just like to know who my captors are," Aramis pressed.

"Allow me to introduce myself, Minister." One of the Spaniards stepped forward and spoke in heavily accented French. "I am Agustin Lopez de Rivera and my colleague is Rodrigo Garcia Contador." Ironically, given the situation, both men respectfully bowed simultaneously and, without thinking, Aramis dipped his head.

"Well, now we have dispensed with the pleasantries, my guests and I will retire to the Library to discuss plans for your removal from my chateau," Desmarais turned towards the door.

"Do stay, I'd love to hear the arrangements," Aramis insisted.

The Baron paused. "Oh, you will hear soon enough; I can assure you of that. In the meantime, don't go anywhere, gentlemen. Benoit, join us!" he ordered.

"Do we all have to stay here?" one of the other men dared to ask.

Desmarais glowered at him. "Where are you thinking of going?"

"Only as far as the kitchens; we haven't eaten yet today," the man continued.

The Baron seemed apoplectic at the effrontery of the request but then thought about it, calling over his shoulder as he left the room, "Not all of you at the same time. Leave at least three here guarding them."


	38. Chapter 38

_**Dear all, belated Easter greetings to you all. A slightly shorter chapter this time as events escalate and we begin to approach the d**_ _ **é**_ _ **nouement of the story. Thank you, as always, for all the feedback on the last chapter.**_

CHAPTER 38

I

From her place of concealment, Milady could hear Desmarais comment on the fact that he thought two men were stationed by the front door and she felt a familiar flash of anger as the one remaining man explained that his colleague had disappeared upstairs to assist the Duchess with a problem she had. There was the pause as the Baron reflected on what he had been told and then he curtly gave the order to the man to get the errant guard back promptly into his position. Desmarais and his party moved on and she risked peering around the wall in time to see them disappear in the direction of the library.

Fortunately, the man at the bottom of the stairs was slow to act as she descended swiftly towards him.

"Where's Albert?" he demanded when she blocked his path by standing two steps above him.

"Oh, he is just disposing of the corpse. He was so brave and made its capture look so easy. He will rejoin you as soon as he has done," she said lightly, anything to prevent him from discovering the small arsenal waiting at the top of the stairs.

"The Baron says I'd best get him now," he said and moved towards her, forcing her to step to one side as he made to brush past.

She let him and wheeled round, her dagger finding a new home lodged in his back. This time, she made no effort to catch him as he fell down the bottom stairs to land in a heap. She hesitated briefly, eyes darting first towards the library and then to the door of the reception room but there was no indication that his fall had been heard or that anyone was coming to investigate.

Pushing him from his side to his front, she placed a foot against his torso to brace herself and pulled out the knife, which had been further embedded in him by the fall. Frowning with disgust, she wiped the blade on his tunic and slid it under his belt for easy retrieval as she took up his booted feet and strained to drag him across the floor in the direction of the reception room. There was no time now for any subtle planning; spontaneity would have to suffice – that and the element of surprise.

II

"Athos? Athos?" Aramis was still trying to get some sort of response from his stricken friend but there was nothing.

"Can you see how badly he's hurt?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly.

"Not from where I'm sitting," came the answer. "He's got a black eye, a bloody nose and a split lip as far as I can see from here but, other than that, I have no way of knowing. He could have head or internal injuries or more but I would not be able to tell without examining him properly."

"You think the Spanish agents did it?" Porthos said.

"I doubt it; not their style, as Desmarais was keen to mention. More likely it was that Benoit or the men with him. We don't know when they took him." Aramis returned his gaze to the unconscious Athos, who had not moved, head forward so that his chin rested on his chest.

"Stop your talkin'!" snapped one of the men who was standing near the door. "The Baron ain't given you leave to sit there talkin'."

Aramis flashed him a smile. "Duly noted, my good man, but neither has he said that we have to sit in complete silence. In fact, he gave no instruction on the matter at all. It is simply boring sitting here, unable to do anything constructive. The least we might be permitted to do is pass the time in genial conversation. If we unnerve you by conversing amongst ourselves, we would not want you to feel excluded; we could talk with you too."

The man frowned. "What?"

"He says we could all talk together," Porthos translated for him. The man was obviously not blessed with an excess of intelligence. "You could start by tellin' us all about 'ow you came to throw in your lot with the Baron and what you know about 'is plans for the four of us."

"I'm not tellin' you that!" the man objected.

Aramis, meanwhile, was watching Athos carefully for he was sure there was a subtle change to the injured man's breathing. If he didn't know better ….

The door to the reception room suddenly burst open to reveal the perplexing sight of the Duchess bent over, making her entrance backside first and groaning at the effort. Moments later it became clear that she was dragging a man by his feet. Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged bewildered looks and the musketeer Captain renewed his attempts to free his wrists.

"Isn't there anyone who can help me?" came Milady's request. "This poor man collapsed at the base of the stairs." She dropped the feet and leaned further towards the body she had been dragging.

The man who had not wanted the prisoners to talk was the first to move – at which point all hell broke loose!

As he saw the blood spreading across the fallen man's back and reached for his own weapon, Milady straightened, turned and sank her knife into his stomach. He croaked, doubled over and crumpled to the floor. Simultaneously, d'Artagnan slipped one hand from the rope that had bound him, drew a dagger from his boot and, without a second thought, hurled it at the man nearest him. It caught him in the chest and, with his hands scrabbling uselessly at the hilt, his legs buckled and down he went.

Galvanised into action, the man on the far side of the room pulled out an ugly looking knife and, with a snarl, leaped forward just as Athos' well-placed boot shot in front of him, tripping him and sending him sprawling before Aramis and Porthos. The General then pinned him down with a foot on his neck as d'Artagnan jumped up and set about untying his brothers and Milady gathered the weapons from the overwhelmed guards.

"Nicely timed," Aramis said to Athos with a wry grin. "How long had you been conscious?"

"Long enough," Athos said, pulling the ropes from around him once d'Artagnan had sliced through the knot. "Thank you," he continued, his eyes on the dark haired beauty who stood, eyes gleaming with satisfaction that all were free.

She merely nodded in acknowledgement.

"They're dead," Porthos announced as he made a quick inspection of Desmarais' men. "Third one fell on his own blade," he explained as the one who had fallen at his feet had not moved at all.

"That was careless of him," d'Artagnan quipped.

"How did you know that d'Artagnan was going to get free at that moment and Athos regain consciousness to play his valued part?" Aramis wanted to know.

Milady raised her eyebrows as if wondering how he dared to ask such a question and then opted for an honest response. "I didn't! It was luck."

"So you just thought you'd drag a dead guard into a room and face down three more?" Porthos asked.

"Something like that."

"And you didn't have a plan B?" d'Artagnan added.

Milady thought for a moment and then shook her head. "No, I thought I'd just take it one step at a time."

Porthos laughed. "You know, after all this time, I'm beginnin' to like 'er. She's got - "

"Porthos!" Aramis interrupted, concerned about what he might have gone on to say.

Milady gave the big man a withering look. "If that's the best you can do in the way of a compliment, I suppose I shall have to accept it."

"I hate to break up this appreciation society," Athos said drily, "but our task is far from over yet. We need some more weapons." He had taken up one of the dead men's pistols and was loading it from the powder horn and pouch he had pulled from the man's belt.

"Just at the top of the stairs," Milady announced. "I retrieved all of yours that I could find and laid them out ready."

With a dip of the head from Athos, d'Artagnan and Porthos headed for the door, opening it a little way and checking that no-one was around as they slipped silently out through the gap. They had not even realised that they had slid back into their original way of working where a look, a gesture signalled an instruction which they accepted without question; Athos was, and always would be, their undisputed leader when the four of them were together, no matter what their current role was within France.

"How are you feeling?" Aramis queried, concerned eyes swiftly gauging Athos for further injury and seeing him wince as he moved.

"I have a severe headache and a number of bruises, but nothing seems to be broken. In short, I will live." He anchored the pistol at his waist through his belt.

"Glad to hear it," Aramis grinned and turned his attention to Milady. "Four of the men here went to the kitchens in search of food. What do you know of any others?"

"Desmarais and his group are currently in the library. I do not know the whereabouts of any more. I killed the two in the entrance," she explained.

"Four men came to escort us from the hunting lodge so there are still two unaccounted for," Athos added.

"Add that to the rest," Aramis said. "The villagers thought Desmarais had about twenty men; I've roughly calculated about seventeen, including Benoit, but we could only guess at the number of fighting capability within the household. Five are dead so that leaves at least a dozen around here somewhere."

"Just over two each then," Milady said with a smile as Porthos and d'Artagnan reappeared and started distributing the weapons they had brought.

"They looked good, all lined up at the top of the stairs," Porthos commented, handing over a sword and belt to the First Minister.

"What happened to yours?" d'Artagnan asked, realising that Athos was bereft of his weapon.

"It was taken from me when I was captured," he answered before adding coldly, "I believe Benoit is currently wearing it but that will soon be rectified."

"It is a fine piece," the musketeer Captain observed. "I do not recall seeing you with it in the past." The remark was an opening to explain the origins of the weapon, but Athos was not to be drawn or distracted from the task in hand.

"We need to get to the library quickly and take Desmarais and the Spaniards; the element of surprise will be to our advantage," he insisted. "From when Aramis and I were reviewing the accounts, there was only the one door in the room. Do we know how well armed the four of them are?"

"Desmarais was not armed at breakfast and did not pick up a weapon whilst he was in here so unless he has something within easy reach in the library, we will not have to be too concerned about him. We did not see any other weapons in there," Aramis answered.

"Benoit and the Spaniards have swords; I don't remember them carryin' any firearms but that's not to say they didn't 'ave 'em," Porthos reasoned.

"Then we move swiftly and with caution," Aramis warned as he headed towards the door.

Athos caught his arm. "I will go in first. There will be no arguments," he added as Aramis made to protest. The First Minister hesitated and then took a step backwards, nodding in affirmation as he allowed Athos to precede him.


	39. Chapter 39

_**Half past midnight and I need to go to bed; second chapter in just over 24 hours! Well, Beeblegirl, hope this presents a little of the action you're looking for (lol!) Also apologies for some of the language I have used but I did deem it necessary. In addition, if there are any errors that have crept through, please forgive me as my proof reading has not been as thorough as it could have been! Got through yesterday's block to the desired cliff hanger this time...**_

 _ **Hope you enjoy it! Thanks, as always, for the comments and encouragement for the last chapter.** _

CHAPTER 39

Startled, Desmarais leaped to his feet as the library door was thrown open and the men he had thought safely secured elsewhere burst into the room, pistols trained on him, the Spaniards and Benoit. If he had not have known better, he would have suspected that the ex- and current soldiers had made some sort of spy hole and ascertained where they all were within the room for they were rapidly covered and slowly raised their hands to demonstrate submission. What Desmarais had not taken into consideration, given his own rag-tag group of ill-trained men, was that Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan had a wealth of skills and experience that could never be forgotten. Their brotherhood had been forged in friendship, loyalty, adversity and the fight for survival on the battlefield and corrupt streets of Paris. They moved with instinct, looking out for each other as well as themselves.

Added to this was the knowledge Athos and Aramis had of the layout of the library. It had been a safe assumption that Desmarias would be seated at his desk, the two Spaniards on the chairs arranged before it and that Benoit, as an 'underling' would be standing off to one side where he could keep all the men in view at one and the same time. When the four made their dramatic entry, there was an unspoken satisfaction that the men in the library were exactly where they were expected to be.

Milday followed them in, carrying the lengths of rope that had been discarded in the reception room. She handed these to d'Artagnan who set about tying up Desmarais first and then the two Spanish agents. He ignored their moans of protest when he pulled the bindings tight for there was to be no chance for escape in the same manner that he had achieved. Whilst Porthos stood with weapons trained on the new prisoners, Aramis secured weapons and Athos, eyes narrowed in anger, pistol steady in his hand, approached Benoit who stood against a panelled wall, warily watching him.

"I believe you have something of mine, something that you have no right to bear. I suggest that you return it immediately." The words were low but there was no ignoring the menace they held. This was no minister's secretary but a trained soldier, a killer and Benoit was under no illusion as to the man's capabilities.

Athos did not move as Benoit hastily unbuckled the sword belt and handed it over. D'Artagnan moved towards them, intent upon completing his task of leading Benoit to another chair and tying him up just as Athos set down his pistol on a nearby chest and was in the process of re-buckling the sword belt round his waist.

"Wait," he ordered, readjusting the precious sword at his hip.

D'Artagnan hesitated, a hand on Benoit's arm. Athos looked back up at Desmarais' man as if truly seeing him for the first time.

The punch to the jaw was hard, fast and unexpected, snapping Benoit's head back and lifting him off his feet. He crashed to the floor and lay there, looking up at Athos with surprise.

"That is for knocking me out and taking that which does not belong to you," he hissed.

"Tut, tut!" Aramis said to Benoit, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "So you were the one responsible for giving him the headache. That's always guaranteed to put him into a bad mood!"

D'Artagnan hauled the fallen man to his feet and dragged him to the chair. Moments later he was secure, just like the other three. "At least you have it back now," he addressed Athos, nodding towards the ornate sword.

Athos glanced down at it briefly, his left hand lightly on the hilt as if to reassure himself of its presence. "Louis gave Tréville a pair of swords when he accepted the position as Minister for War. One we buried with him and this, its partner," he paused, "was gifted to me by the Queen when I resigned my commission."

There, now they knew and, typical of Athos, he had imparted the information when he chose and not before. A respectful silence pervaded the room as his brothers dwelt upon his comment.

"It was a fine gift for the right person," d'Artagnan said softly, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "So what do we do next?" and he turned to inspect the prisoners.

"You'll not get away with this," Desmarais found his voice at last. "My men outnumber you and they will get us out of this soon."

"I'd like to see 'em try. They 'aven't been very effective so far," Porthos pointed out. "Five of 'em are already dead an' three of those were killed by a woman."

Desmarais frowned at his words and then realised to whom he was referring. Milady was perched on the arm of a chair on the opposite side of the room and silently met his gaze. When she had followed Athos and his friends into the library, carrying the ropes that had been used on the Baron and the Spaniards – he did not think to include Benoit in his reckoning – he presumed that she had been coerced into helping, fearful for her own safety. He had never considered her to be part of the attack itself.

His jaw dropped. "You killed them?"

"Naturally." She said it as if insulted by his disbelief.

"How did you get free?" he demanded of Aramis.

As one, the _Inseparables_ turned to look at Milady and, if it were at all possible, Desmarais' jaw dropped even further.

"You did that too?" his voice was little more than a high-pitched squeak.

"Of course," she said in exasperation. Once again, a man was doubting her capabilities.

He cleared his throat and attempted to recover himself. "You do realise, my dear, that in acting against me, all possibility of our being joined in matrimony no longer exists. I release you forthwith from any agreement there has been between us. I cannot trust you, so I certainly cannot marry you."

If he expected her to fall to her knees and beg him tearfully to reconsider his decision, to confess that she had been led astray in the heat of the moment and admit that she was dreadfully sorry, enough to plead for a second chance…then he was sorely mistaken.

Her green eyes flashed with undisguised contempt. "I was never going to marry you, you stupid little man. I only said it to give them time to do what they wanted. Besides, I'm not free to marry you," and she waved a hand in Athos' direction, "I'm still married to him."

"Wha-!" Desmarais could only manage a strangled sound as he looked from her to Athos – who shrugged noncommittally - and back again. He snapped his mouth shut and, not really understanding the set-up at all, struggled to find a suitable riposte.

"It hasn't stopped you before," d'Artagnan commented.

"I've already said that recently," Porthos reminded him.

"Are you or are you not a Duchess?" Desmarais demanded.

Milady raised her eyes to the ceiling as if expecting to find the answer inscribed there. "In that I married a Duke, then yes, I am a Duchess. That the marriage was not legal, then no, I am not. Yes, I did marry an English aristocrat but no, it was not the Duke of Bedford. Although I did meet him once." This she directed at Porthos as if expecting him to be impressed. "He was a strange little man; I did not care for him much."

"I suppose there is something a little strange about all aristocrats," Porthos said sympathetically, his comment not lost on either Desmarais or Athos.

"I would have made you a Baroness," Desmarais said, his tone tinged with petulance.

"Why on earth would I want to be a Baroness when I am a Comtesse anyway?" she asked.

Once again, Desmarais was looking from one to the other of the confessed married couple. "I don't understand …"

"He outranks you," Milady said, enjoying crushing Desmarais even further.

Athos rolled his eyes. "I do not acknowledge the title any more. It has ceased to exist."

"Just because you decided to give it up, husband, does not mean that I am willing to do the same. We did not even discuss it."

"There were good reasons for that," Athos said slowly, hoping that he would not be expected to repeat them.

"No matter," she said lightly, as though she also did not want to revisit the events that had destroyed their relationship. "It's just a useful title to have every now and then."

"You've continued to use it?" Aramis asked.

"When it has suited me," she admitted.

"Trouble brewing!" No-one had notice that d'Artagnan had positioned himself at the library door which he had opened a little to allow himself view of the corridor and one side of the main entrance hall. "The four that went for food have just headed towards the reception room. They'll raise the alarm …" He was cut off by shouts emanating from the very direction they had gone. "…about now!" he finished.

Pistols in one hand and swords in the other, the _Inseparables_ gathered at the door. Hesitating, Athos strode back to Milady and handed her his pistol. "Stay here and guard them. If they so much as move or make a sound, shoot them."

"With pleasure," she concurred, hearing the door open and close behind her.

Seconds later, there came the sound of weapons being discharged, a man's scream, other shouting and the clash of steel on steel.

"You won't get away with this," Desmarais declared from between clenched teeth.

She raised an eyebrow questioningly. "I do not see why not. Your men are gradually being picked off and you are in here tied to a chair. I would say that you are the one at a considerable disadvantage who is unlikely to get away with anything."

Desmarais softened markedly, obviously deciding upon trying a different tactic.

"Ann, dearest, I am so sorry about what I said to you earlier. I am sure that this is all some terrible misunderstanding and that if we were to sit down and discuss things in a calm manner, we could put right what has happened and salvage our relationship. Now, why don't you be good, put down that pistol and untie me?"

The condescending, manipulative tone was the last straw and Ann was sorely tempted to hit him when the library door opened again. She whirled round, pistol at the ready to confront whoever dared to enter.

"Steady," Athos ordered, hands outstretched as he walked into the room.

"I could have shot you!" she remonstrated.

"But you did not," he said simply, "so all is well."

"That's an opportunity missed," Porthos whispered as he passed her, pushing a whimpering, injured man before him. "Could have freed you up for ol' Demarais; that's if you could see your way clear to lowerin' your sights to bein' a Baroness." His eyes gleamed with suppressed humour and she was about to something caustic when she reconsidered.

"Just burned my bridges there," she said with feigned regret and stood aside to let d'Artagnan pass with another prisoner.

"Any more rope around?" d'Artagnan wanted to know as he shoved the man down on the floor.

"Here," Athos held out a length. "We cut the piece that was around Porthos in half."

D'Artagnan laughed as he bound the man's hands behind him before pushing him to sit up against the wall.

"Hope that wasn't a comment about my size," Porthos warned.

"Certainly not," Athos said, apparently offended by the accusation. "It was more a comment upon your strength; they obviously wanted to ensure that you could not break free."

"That's fine then; just so long as we all understand that," the General said.

"He is easily placated," Athos said quietly to Aramis who grinned broadly.

"Another two down?" Milady was trying to account for Desmarais' men again.

"Four dead," Aramis answered her. "Two more appeared to help so, with the two we brought in here, that's six all told."

"Nine dead in total now. Just as well. It's getting a little crowded in here," she noted surveying the room, its bound occupants and the four men she had known for years. Somehow, she had never realised how big they were; big in height – for all of them were six feet and above in height – and big in personality. Looking at them now, they seemed to fill the library, confident in themselves and with each other.

"My men will stop you, you know that. Give yourselves up now and let me go," Desmarais insisted.

"So that you can still hand us over to the Spanish? I think not," Aramis declared.

"We can hold out against your men for some time," d'Artagnan observed. "The ones we have encountered so far have not been well trained."

"You haven't exactly got the makin's of an army," Porthos goaded.

"You're still outnumbered," Desmarais boasted.

"What? Two to one?" Athos countered. "We have fought worse odds and the victory was still ours. Besides, we will be taking you and your guests back to Paris. You especially will be facing justice for what you have done."

"And what exactly is that accusation?" the Baron taunted.

Aramis was incredulous. "Treason for a start, man. You were eager to brag of your misdeeds against France after breakfast and three of us heard you."

"You are friends, concocting some tale to suit your own purposes. Where is your proof?"

"Oh, we have the proof," Athos said slowly. Something in his stillness, his low voice and the cold menace of his expression arrested Desmarais' attention.

"What proof? I do not believe you."

"Written evidence of your dealings with the Spanish over a considerable length of time. Your _other_ accounts, the ones where you itemise the extra taxes extracted from your people, the lists of those unable to pay and what you have ordered in lieu of payment."

Desmarais paled at the news.

"And if you were ever to gain your freedom and think of destroying the hunting lodge and all that is hidden there, then think again," Aramis advised him. "We have taken examples of that information and secreted them somewhere safe. Rest assured, we have enough to gain a conviction, even without the testimony of your tenants."

"And what would you have them tell you? So what if I tried to get more money from them? I have only to say it was to swell the coffers of France," Desmarais said in contempt.

"You think the word of the First Minister and a General count for nothing?" d'Artagnan was finding it difficult to comprehend that Desmarais was trying to backtrack on his earlier admission.

"The people will speak of how your men treated them, with threats and violence," Aramis continued.

"They were refusing to pay!" Desmarais objected.

"They did not have the money to pay," Athos retorted.

"And so they rebelled."

"They tried to explain to you," Athos persisted. To some of those assembled in the room, he seemed strangely calm, controlled, but his brothers recognised the warning signs and could see the inner struggle to contain a dangerous temper.

"Athos," Aramis began, trying to defuse what he saw as an escalating situation.

"With a petition!" Desmarais spat. "They dared to approach me with a petition."

"And you sent your men to control them, to get the money from them by any means and using whatever force they deemed necessary. They killed and injured innocent people: old men, women and children."

Desmarais' voice had risen to a shout. "They defied me! What else did they expect? I will not be held responsible for the punishment of rebellious tenants. So what if some of them died?" His eyes were wide and wild as he glared at Athos, spittle on his lips as his rant continued. "I know where you are going with this. You want to blame me for the deaths of your whore and bastard son. Well, I tell you now, she got what she deserved; she was the worst of the lot, the ring leader of them all!"

No-one could have predicted what happened next for Athos moved faster than any of them believed possible and all they could do was watch in stunned immobility.

With a guttural roar, he leaped forward, slid across the desk and had Desmarais pinned in his chair, the point of his rapier at the Baron's throat. His vitriolic outburst melting to abject terror, Demarais squealed, not daring to move as a thin trickle of blood from a superficial cut began to run down his neck.

"Athos, no!" Aramis shouted desperately.


	40. Chapter 40

Dear all, thank you so much for all the comments on the last chapter. It ended on a crisis and it continues here. Not sure whether I ought to give a little warning about this chapter ...!

If there are any errors, profuse apologies.

CHAPTER 40

"Athos, don't," Aramis dropped his voice, not wishing to startle his friend. He did not want to consider the possibility of the Baron being stabbed by accident. "Please don't do this."

The swordsman stood, arm rigidly extended, the weapon remaining at Desmarais' throat. Initially, he did not appear to have heard the plea but then his answer was ground out from between clenched teeth. "He has maligned the memory of my family."

"I know, but this is not the way to deal with it – or him."

Desmarais' face had blanched with fear, his eyes wide as he pressed himself against the chair back, anything to try to avoid the blade that pricked the tender skin. "You can't let him kill me. Do something!" His voice was little more than a hysterical squeak.

"Be quiet if you know what's good for you," d'Artagnan muttered at him in warning.

"For everything he has done and said, justice will be served," Aramis sounded calmer than he felt, his mind racing as he sought the words and the message to persuade Athos to desist. He could not help but wonder if this was the moment for which he had been waiting and dreading, the moment when Athos' grief would tip him over the edge of the usual measured control into an abyss from which there was no coming back. "We will take him back to Paris where he will be charged, tried and executed for his crimes. We discussed this," he reasoned.

Athos never took his eyes off the Baron who, if it were at all possible, shrank back even further in the face of the disconcerting stare. "If I recall, you did most of the talking, Aramis, and I listened."

"You agreed! There was the added proviso that if, somehow, he was acquitted, you would put that right, but I fervently believe it will not come to that," Aramis went on.

"You don't have to do this," d'Artagnan added softly, concerned eyes fixed on the man who had been his mentor in the past. "Leave it to the proper authorities."

"I seem to have heard that before," Athos said pointedly.

D'Artagnan glanced worriedly at Milady and realised, from the expression on her face that she remembered when it had been uttered some nine years before. Athos had her in a similar position then, with his rapier at her throat; the only difference being that she was on her knees rather than tied to a chair and she had been guilty of holding d'Artagnan's beloved Constance with a pistol to her head.

"Athos …" she began.

"Do not even think of pleading for him, Ann." His tone was chilling.

"She does not need to," Aramis went on. "I must be in a position to have some influence as First Minister with those same 'proper authorities'."

All the while, Porthos had been moving stealthily towards Athos from the right, intent upon taking him by surprise and disarming him. Such an act against his brother would be guaranteed to have consequences, but he was prepared to face whatever those repercussions might be rather than let Athos act first and be consumed by guilt and remorse afterwards.

"I suggest that you do not move another step, Porthos," Athos declared, the clipped enunciation that betrayed his noble upbringing even more pronounced, "not if you value our friendship."

Aramis raised a hand to stop the big man as well and shook his head. Porthos merely sighed; he might have known that Athos would sense his approach.

"Think about this, Athos," Aramis said, trying a different tack.

"I have done nothing else but think about this moment for weeks. This way is swifter. It saves the trouble, time and expense of a trial."

"But it denies justice to a lot of other people," Aramis said carefully as he began to take his opportunistic turn in inching closer towards his unpredictable friend. From the sudden angling of the head, Aramis knew that he had Athos' attention and dared to continue. "Sylvie and Raoul weren't the only ones to lose their lives that day and others were injured. Survivors and their loved ones are looking for explanations and some sense of judgement. We need to know the extent of the damage he has done to France with his treachery; if he is not prepared to admit it himself, perhaps we can get them to talk," and he indicated towards the Spanish who had been listening to the exchange with fascination. They certainly did not seem to be bothered by the turn of events or the fact that they, too, were being held prisoner; for the time being at least, they were not the focus of interest.

"Sylvie would not want this," Aramis continued. He was beginning to hope that Athos would not apply any pressure to the rapier. If he had fully intended to kill Desmarais, he would have done it by now; his hesitation implied that he did not really want to follow through with the physical threat now that the occasion had presented itself.

"I swore at their graveside that I would make sure that they would have justice," Athos said. This time there was a catch in his voice that did not go unnoticed.

"And you can ensure that they will still have that justice," Aramis persisted. "Let it be done through the courts rather than you having to act as juror, judge and executioner. It does not have to fall directly upon your shoulders." His mind was racing. _Please don't break, Athos; not here, not now._

"But I didn't kill them!" Desmarais bleated. "I am sorry for what I said but I didn't kill them!"

He really should have followed d'Artagnan's advice and remained silent. If Aramis had thought that he might successfully be persuading Athos to stand down, Demarais' denial only served to rekindle the swordsman's anger.

His eyes narrowed and his back stiffened whilst his voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. This, his brothers recognised of old, was when he was at his most dangerous. Subconsciously, the three took a deep breath and straightened, for anything might happen in the next few seconds. "You gave them the order to teach the villagers a lesson they would never forget, to use any force necessary as they took money and goods."

"Athos," Aramis tried again.

"But I didn't kill them! It wasn't my fault," Desmarais interrupted. "You dealt with the men responsible."

With that utterance, Athos emitted a low, animalistic growl. It was as if there was suddenly no-one else in the room save for himself and the Baron.

"You said that Sylvie deserved what she got, that she was the worst, the ringleader. She was a problem to you, a thorn in your side and you wanted her stopped."

"What?" Desmarais cried.

"So, you gave your men some additional instructions. They were to find her and deal with her, to kill her!"

Desmarais turned desperate eyes on the other men standing there, appealing to them for help. "What's he talking about? He has gone mad with grief. There is no truth to his words."

Athos dropped the rapier to his side and closed the distance between himself and the Baron. Grabbing Desmarais by the shirt front, he pulled him up so that he was straining against the rope that held the man. He leaned in close, inches from the other's face.

"Godin confessed everything to me," he spat out.

"He would say anything if he thought he was about to die and it might save his life," Desmarais argued.

Athos shook his head. "He knew he was about to die and opted to do some good in his final moments."

A muffled gasp from Milady caused d'Artagnan to look at her and he moved quickly to her side. Knuckles on one hand pressed to her lips, her eyes were misty as she watched the man to whom she was still legally married. This was a side of him that she had never seen before. When she had stabbed his brother, there had been no anger on his part, not that she had witnessed. His green eyes had clouded with grief and disbelief but there had been no fury. He had issued instructions to his servants to lock her in a room and swiftly passed judgement on her. She had wept and pleaded with him, but he was immovable, resolute and had nothing more to say to her. The sadness in his expression then had completely disappeared by the time she was taken out to the tree on the estate from which she was destined to hang. When he rode up to the site, that ability to shut down his emotions was already developed, the only crack in his careful defence being his inability to stay and watch that punishment carried out. Years later, she learned that he had not been as cold and unfeeling as she had at first thought. There had been a perverse satisfaction when she discovered that he had spent the intervening years trying to find some sort of solace in the bottom of a bottle, intent upon drinking himself into oblivion but that was not what she was seeing here.

She knew of and had witnessed his prowess with a sword and appreciated that he had carved out a life for himself, first as a highly skilled and respected soldier and then as a much-revered captain, leading the musketeers to war. This terrifying menace that he exuded now was something new to her though and she felt a tremor of fear ripple through her. Had he always had this capacity when she married him? Or had he evolved into this, the transition initiated by what had happened between them and exacerbated by his years of service and the callous reality of war? Or was it – and here she struggled with the notion – was it purely the result of his recent loss. He had called them 'his family', and that was what they were. It was another untimely reminder of what had never been for her and Athos, what had been denied them with that single act of killing Thomas.

Her distress was evident enough for d'Artagnan to guide her to a chair and lower her onto it; she clasped at his steadying hand and refused to release him. He looked from her to Athos, torn between the two as he had been in the past.

"I don't believe you," Desmarais was stuttering.

"How else would I know of your additional instruction?" Athos demanded.

"You wouldn't kill an unarmed man," the Baron whined. "Where is your sense of honour?"

"Perhaps I have left it in the grave with my family." Suddenly, Athos released him and straightened up. "Untie him and put a sword in his hand," he ordered to anyone who would listen.

Desmarais made a choking sound as he remembered what Benoit had told him of the man's skill with a sword in his hand. "I won't stand a chance."

Athos leaned in again. "You expect me to give you a chance? To fight fair? What happened to Sylvie's chance? To that of my son? Do you know what happened to them? Do you?" he repeated venomously.

"Athos," Aramis appealed to him again.

Desmarais shook his head nervously.

"Then let me enlighten you," he hissed.

"No, you don't need to …." Aramis groaned.

But Athos did not hear him. "Sylvie and the other villagers were in the meeting hall when your men turned up in force. I expect some of them have met their end here today or they're still lurking around outside. They burst in, shouting out their orders and threats and before any of the villagers could do anything, your men set fire to the building to throw weight behind their words. Panic erupted, and the villagers ran for their lives.

"That's what Sylvie was doing, running for her life, hers and Raoul's. She was carrying him in her arms as she headed for home and sanctuary. Godin and Lahaye saw her and identified her. They went after her because of _your_ order."

No-one in the room moved and there was complete silence as they listened to Athos' carefully measured tone. For Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan, it was the answer to their questions but, even now, none of them was sure that he wanted to hear the truth. For Milady, she had to know, to understand the devastating change that had been wrought in him. Desmarais did not want to hear but understood that he had no alternative. Benoit, who had not said a thing since Athos punched him, was intrigued, for he was genuinely ignorant of what had transpired.

"Godin was on horseback when he pursued her and deliberately ran her down. The women of the village were not sure what exactly killed Raoul. There was a large stone on the ground beneath his head and a depression in his fragile, child's skull. That may have been the cause, or his mother might have crushed him when she fell forward on him, or it might have been the pistol ball." Here, Athos began to lose the brittle control he had built around himself and his voice broke. "The ball fired from Lahaye's pistol at close range. From his horse, towering over her, he fired. The ball went through her and into …" He could not finish.

Aramis swiped at the tears in his own eyes, Porthos let out a low moan at his brother's pain and d'Artagnan, shortly to be a father himself, gave a juddering sigh at the revelation.

Drawing in a ragged breath and fighting to regain his composure, Athos stood up properly and glanced out the window.

Just in time to see the remainder of Desmarais' men breaking cover in the yard, weapons pointed in his direction.

"Get down!" he roared to everyone in the room.

Dropping his sword, he threw himself at the chair where Desmarais was sitting. The Baron yelled in surprise, convinced that he was about to be murdered as he, the chair and Athos crashed to the floor just as the window, which had been directly behind them, exploded in a barrage of pistol fire.


	41. Chapter 41

**_Dear all, wow! (There were plenty of those in your last batch of comments!) Thank you SOOO much for your feedback - and shock! Although this chapter has been in my head for a long time, it was not an easy one to write to get that fine balance between Athos' grief and menace; he is certainly a very dangerous man!_**

 ** _So, here is what happens next. I had set myself a target of finishing the story by tomorrow but it will not happen now. We are fast approaching the end though; have worked it all out and there is a maximum of four more chapters (the penultimate one is not going to be easy to write either) before another saga comes to a close. I began this one in May of last year! Thank you to all who came along for the ride and are still here, a year later, as we approach the closing stages._**

 ** _Apologies for any errors that may have crept in here - they're all mine (even if spell check wanted to correct d'Artagnan to 'datagrams'!)_**

 ** _Teaser: do not worry, though. When I post the final chapter, I'll give you a little insight into what's coming next - two more epics (I hope you'll agree) for the 'R' collection and a shorter story._**

 ** _V_**

CHAPTER 41

Athos extricated himself from the tangle of chair and limbs and scrambled across the floor to one side of the window whilst Aramis was at the other, blood trickling from a cut to his head caused by flying glass shards.

"You're hurt," Athos stated, accepting the loaded pistol that Aramis held out to him.

The First Minister raised a hand to the cut and seemed surprised when his fingers came away bloody; he had felt nothing. "I will deal with it later; I doubt that the delay will ruin my good looks," he announced with a grin. "Ready?"

He glanced at Athos who nodded, and the pair immediately moved smoothly as one. They both rose to a knee, fired simultaneously through the broken window and then dropped down again. Porthos and d'Artagnan were manoeuvring a heavy cupboard across in front of the library door to barricade it before crawling across the floor to the safety of the desk, where they set to work rapidly reloading pistols and pushing them underneath the piece of furniture to their friends. There was no room for all four of them to be positioned at the shattered window.

The two ex-soldiers kept up a steady rhythm of fire, supported by the reloading of their brothers, and Aramis counted aloud in grim satisfaction when another man fell to either his or Athos' well-judged aim. Very little fire was being returned in the face of their relentless onslaught.

"Where's a weapon?" the First Minister demanded when there was no pistol within reach.

"No more powder," Porthos declared.

"How many more down?" d'Artagnan wanted to know.

"Three probably dead and the same again wounded," Aramis answered.

"There are four or five still out there," Athos stated, assessing the situation. "They've retreated to the outbuildings and stables. I have not seen anyone go around the side to come into the main part of the chateau yet but that does not mean to say that someone has not tried or succeeded."

"Well they can't get into here," Porthos reassured them, inclining his head towards the blocked door.

"It's gone very quiet out there," d'Artagnan noted. "Perhaps they're also low or even out of ammunition."

Athos yanked on Desmarais' shoulder, eliciting a moan. The man was lying on his right side, back to the window so that Athos was behind him.

"You'll live," he said unsympathetically. "How well armed are your men? Have they access to fresh ammunition?"

"You expect me to help you after this?" Desmarais spat out in anger. He had raised his head and was attempting to look over his shoulder at the man he considered to be his nemesis.

Tired of the man's lack of co-operation, Athos viciously kicked out at the chair back, the resultant jarring causing the Baron to moan again. "No, I'm expecting you to answer my questions."

"There is a small armoury housed in the block to the left of the stables," a voice came from across the room. "They will have access to all they need there."

Although he could not see the man concerned, he knew the voice and Desmarais' eyes flashed with anger. "Benoit, you traitor!"

"That is fine coming from you," Benoit retorted. "Negotiations with the Spanish was a stupid plan of yours right from the beginning. What could you possibly have given them that was of any value to their cause? You certainly never raised enough money to keep them happy."

"Be quiet, you fool!" Desmarais yelled.

Benoit was not to be stopped though. "I have listened to your scheming, followed your instructions, done your dirty work for you and for what? To be paid a pittance, to face the danger and to lie for you. Well, I have done with that." Ignoring the Baron, he addressed the _Inseparables._ "I will tell you all that I know."

"You're only saying this now to save your own skin," the Baron spat contemptuously.

Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan exchanged bemused looks at this sudden turn of events.

"Or I have at last come to my senses!" Benoit pulled himself up straight on his chair and looked directly at Porthos. "There are more stores of powder and shot down in the cellar."

"Like at Pinon," Athos breathed. "I should have known that."

"When I get out of this, you are a dead man!" Desmarais roared, incited by Benoit's betrayal.

"And when are you going to manage that?" d'Artagnan asked in ill-disguised amusement as he watched the nobleman struggle against his bonds as lay on the floor.

Desmarais went still and glared at him as if he could not fathom the stupidity of the question. "My men outside will launch a fresh attack again. They will get in here, set me free and you will be sorry."

"How many men do you think are still out there?" Athos rounded on him. "We've killed and wounded enough of them. How many more answer to your call?"

If Athos supposed that Desmarais might divulge that information as a boast, he was mistaken; the Baron firmly closed his mouth.

The Spaniards began to chatter together excitedly in their native tongue and Athos, glancing at Aramis, could tell that his friend was listening intently. The agents did not need to know just yet that he was fluent in the language too.

"D'you see anyone, Athos?" Porthos nodded towards the window. "If not, I'll slip out and get us some more ammunition."

"I'll come with you," d'Artagnan announced.

"And me," Milady stood up, glad to be doing something at last.

The two men had only just laid hands on the cabinet to move it away from the door when loud shouting was heard outside.

"Now what?" Athos demanded of no-one in particular as he stood, back flattened against the window frame and risked inclining his head to peer out into the yard.

"What's goin' on?" Porthos asked, thinking that he had lost the chance to get the supplies they so desperately needed if they were to continue the fight.

The shouting increased and Athos, deciding that there was little risk of danger, moved into the open before the shattered window, his brow creased in puzzlement. Intrigued, his brothers joined him and looked upon the strange events unfolding outside the chateau.

A large group of men walked through the archway from the countryside beyond; several of them near the front were brandishing aloft white cloths tied to sticks or even a broom handle, indicating that they were there to talk. Others, unsure of their effectiveness, were armed with an assortment of agricultural tools. Behind them, looking even more intimidating, was a gaggle of womenfolk. It was impossible to ascertain whether they were there to support the intent of their men and keep them focused or because they wanted to lay hands on the Baron's men and were annoyed at being kept to the rear.

"That's Henri Bevard up the front," Porthos said.

"Who?" Aramis had not heard of the man.

"He is regarded by the villagers as one of their elders," Athos explained, having spoken often with the man.

Bevard stopped in the middle of the courtyard, all the others coming to an abrupt halt behind him.

"Hold your fire, all of you!" he bellowed, looking around him for he had no idea of who was where.

"He's one brave man," Aramis said softly.

"You are in no danger from us!" Porthos shouted, standing clearly in the middle of the broken window, his big frame almost filling it, especially as he held his hands up so that Bevard could see he was not armed.

Bevard nodded in acknowledgement and turned his attention to the other buildings lining the courtyard. "Robert Loye, Guillaume Prout, Joseph Tissot, get your sorry hides out here where I can see you! Show yourselves and be prepared to talk!" The man's voice was unwavering and carried clearly throughout the yard. There was no way he could not be heard.

Time seemed to pass slowly and, eventually, Desmarais' men gradually appeared from where they had concealed themselves. D'Artagnan did a rapid count – not that it took long. There were six of them and they all bore weapons, but their attention was not on the library. Instead, they stepped forward to meet Bevard.

"Robert is dead," the first of them announced. A wail immediately arose from one of the women at the back and the others clustered around her with arms to clasp her and sympathetic mutterings.

Bevard sighed. "I am sorry to hear that, Joseph." His eyes ranged over the rag-tag collection of survivors. "Is this all of you now?"

"Yes," Tissot sounded bitter as he gestured towards the main part of the chateau. "They've seen to that,"

"Of course they have, you idiot. They're all trained soldiers," Bevard informed him.

Tissot's eyes widened. "What? All of them? But one of them is the First Minister!"

"The four of them served together in the King's élite musketeers. You are trying to take down a current general, a captain, a past captain and a marksman." Bevard explained, repeating what Porthos and d'Artagnan had deliberately told him. "Where are your skills when faced with this? What has the Baron ever done to train you properly? How many more of you must die for that man? Those of you standing here were born and raised in the village. I've known you all your lives: saw your proud fathers hold you up for all to see, watched your first faltering steps and saw the mischief you got into as you grew and saw you develop into manhood. You know what he's done to us, the torment he's caused. Do you still give him your allegiance to the last?"

Within the library, Athos pulled a dagger from d'Artagnan's belt and bent over Desmarais who yelped again, convinced he was about to breathe his last. Instead, Athos neatly sliced through the bonds that attached him to the chair, grabbed the shoulder of the man's clothing and hauled him to his feet, only to steady him at the window in full view of everyone.

"No-one else needs to die here today. The village has suffered enough because of this man," Athos yelled so that all could hear. _I have suffered enough,_ went through his mind. The gathering fell silent at his words and all heads turned to him. "He is in league with the Spanish. He has overtaxed you and the extra money from your hard work has gone into Spain's coffers." The shocked gasps and comments from the listeners, including those who had been fighting, demonstrated that they were innocent of the Baron's machinations. Aware that he had their undivided attention, Athos continued.

"We will take him to Paris to answer for his crimes, crimes against you: fraudulent demands for money, intimidation, harm and murder. There are also his crimes against France - his treachery against crown and country. We have also taken prisoner two Spanish agents, men who arrived yesterday to meet with the Baron to negotiate further betrayal." There was a cheer from the villagers at this information and Athos gestured to them for quiet. When silence fell upon them once more, he looked directly at the men he had been fighting. "Lay down your weapons."

Tissot looked around at the men who stood with him, nodded and bent to set his weapon on the ground. There was no hesitation as the others followed suit. Bevard took long strides forward and grasped Tissot by the hand, shaking it fervently with a mixture of thanks and relief.

Righting the chair, Athos pushed Desmarais back down onto it and towered over him as the Baron visibly deflated before him.

"I think that says it all, Desmarais. Defeated and turned upon by your own people. Your ill-treatment of them has come back to bring you down; you deserve no more."

"You still have to get me back to Paris and build your case," Desmarais still attempted some bravado but he did not sound convincing.

"We have your confession from breakfast when you thought you had us at the disadvantage," Aramis reminded him.

"And we have all the other proof too," Athos said slowly. Something in his stillness, his low voice and the cold menace of his expression arrested Desmarais' attention.

"What proof? I do not believe you."

"The evidence concealed in your hunting lodge, the written evidence of your dealings with the Spanish over a considerable length of time. Your _other_ accounts, the real ones where you itemise the extra taxes extracted from your people, the lists of those unable to pay and what you have ordered in lieu of payment."

Desmarais paled at the news.

"Your Spanish friends are set to give evidence against you too," Aramis announced.

The two Spaniards looked aghast.

He grinned back at them mischievously. "I'm sorry, did I forget to mention that I am a fluent Spanish speaker? I cannot promise the release you desire in exchange for your information but, as First Minister, I will do what I can to facilitate something of benefit to both sides."

"I think we have all the evidence we need for the courts," Athos declared.

There was no jubilation in his tone, it was merely a statement but on hearing it, Aramis allowed himself a sigh of relief. They still had to get back to Paris but, for today at least, it seemed that Athos was prepared to wait for a trial and that he would not shed Desmarais' blood himself. Not today.


	42. Chapter 42

_**Dear all, sorry to keep you waiting. This is an odd little chapter to my way of thinking and it did not fall easily into place but I got almost to where I wanted to be. Thank you for the comments on the last chapter. I think I was able to message everyone.**_

CHAPTER 42

I

'Battle' might have been a grandiose term for the skirmish as it was certainly not on a vast scale, nor was it protracted. It began after the late breakfast and was concluded well before people thought of stopping for something to curb their hunger at midday. Having said that, men had lost their lives and so, as details of the confrontation spread amongst the villagers, 'The Battle of the Chateau' was the name upon which everyone agreed and, down through the years, generation after generation would tell of that day's events and the bringing to justice of a greedy, unscrupulous and treacherous liege lord.

It was quickly decided that the departure for Paris would be delayed until early the next morning as much needed to be done before then and there was significant activity to put certain things in place before the day ended.

Firstly, Porthos and d'Artagnan secured the prisoners in a small, lockable room on the first floor of the chateau. Accepting help offered by the villagers, they posted three of the local men on guard, one inside the room and two without, equipping them with weapons from the armoury. That most of the men did not know what to do with the weapons was immaterial as they were changed on a two-hourly basis, both day and night, and care was taken _not_ to let Desmarais and the Spaniards know the true depth of their inexperience. The Baron's emerging incompetence indicated that he knew very little about what most of his tenants could or could not do.

It was deemed unwise not to leave Benoit in the same room. His physical well-being was safeguarded by the prisoners remaining bound, but the verbal assault to which he might be exposed was worth avoiding if the brothers thought he might help them further, so he was left tied up in the library with his own personal guard.

That done, the two serving soldiers conducted interviews with the few survivors of Desmarais' inept little army; Bevard and two other senior men from the village also sat in on the meetings to add their weight to what was discussed. If the individuals were to remain within the village, the people had to know that they could trust them, that they would not try to wield power or stage any retribution in the absence of a lord. Five confronting one ensured that the individual swiftly promised loyalty.

Whilst they talked, Athos and Aramis went to the kitchen, only to discover the serving staff cowering on the floor of a large, walk-in store cupboard. The young girls started screaming as soon as the door was opened and it took several minutes before Aramis' charm began to work its wonders and they quietened down, their hysterical sobs eventually slowing, to be punctuated by breathy hiccoughs.

Eventually seated at the kitchen table, a bowl of water and some clean cloths between them, the pair set about bathing each other's injuries. Athos insisted upon taking care of Aramis first.

"It is but a cut when all's said and done," Aramis said dismissively. "I've had worse."

"That may be so," Athos countered, "but this is the freshest and still trickling blood. Mine are old in comparison. The fact that I continue to breathe can be taken as a good sign."

"Pleased to hear it," Aramis quipped but suddenly winced as the thin wound smarted more than he expected. He tried to pull away but Athos held fast to his chin with one hand and dabbed at the cut with the other. His touch was as gentle as he could make it.

"Sorry!"

"Accepted," Aramis sighed and attempted to sit still for the duration of his brother's ministrations.

"There!" Athos declared, tossing the bloodied cloth into the bowl and wiping his hand dry on another. "All done. It is superficial and will not require stitching so you will be relieved to know that it should not leave a scar. I have checked carefully and I can see no sliver of glass in it."

"That is reassuring," Aramis grinned. "Now it is your turn." He began to wipe the dried blood from Athos' nose and moustache, concentrating hard before he spoke again. "You never had the chance to explain how you were captured, nor why you were unconscious when they dragged you into the room. You gave us quite the scare, I can tell you."

Athos paused. "I was careless."

Aramis abruptly stopped what he was doing and moved back to look Athos directly in the eyes. "I did not expect that to be your answer."

"But it is the truth. I was so intent upon seeing who was in the hunting lodge last night that I failed to be aware of what was behind me, namely that Benoit was creeping up on me."

"That is unlike you."

Athos shrugged. "Perhaps I am getting too old for this spy business."

Aramis gave a gentle huff. "I doubt it, my friend." He could no help another thought flitting through his mind. _I believe that it is more likely to be the result of your current state of mind. There is too much going on in your head for you to truly concentrate._

"You were unconscious for a long while then," he commented, concern flaring if Athos had been knocked out the previous evening.

Athos shook his head. "No, I came round fairly quickly, by which time he had dragged me inside the lodge and tied me up. He asked me a few questions, which I felt disinclined to answer so he took advantage of the fact that I couldn't defend myself and hit me a few times."

Aramis allowed himself a slight smile at the thought of Athos' 'disinclination' to respond to a direct question. Little had changed there then.

"Then this morning, four more men arrived to bring us here."

"And you were knocked out again?" Aramis frowned.

Athos shrugged. "I did not co-operate, so they made me." He gave just a hint of a wry grin. "It served its purpose earlier when Ann made her grand entrance though."

"She played her part very well," Aramis chuckled briefly and then grew serious again. "Thank you." Athos raised an eyebrow questioningly. "For not killing Desmarais. Believe me, I know you want to and if it were me, I'd be wanting to do the same, but we have to make sure justice is seen to be done by the greatest number of people."

"He must die for that justice to be served," Athos said carefully, for nothing else would suffice or give him the peace for which he craved.

"And he will, brother; and he will."

II

It was inevitable that Desmarais' estate would be confiscated for his crimes and it was probably for the best that he had no heirs or dependants who would be left homeless or destitute as a result of his machinations. There was no way of knowing yet what the Crown might intend for the estate but, in the meantime, his tenants had to survive. Later, when Athos and Aramis had finished tending each other, they met with Bevard and other trusted villagers, ensuring that they could look after themselves as they awaited a new lord. Athos handed Bevard the keys to the armoury.

"Should you need to defend yourselves in the interim," he said in justification. People left unprotected for a while by their liege lord might fall prey to an unscrupulous neighbour. He had seen it happen to his own tenants in Pinon when he had walked away from his birth right and he had learned a valuable lesson himself – it was a mistake that he would not allow to happen twice.

D'Artagnan and Porthos returned to the village with Bevard and the others to make a formal announcement to all who lived on Desmarais' land. They gave the details of the meeting that had just been held, announced their departure set for the following morning and explained what was likely to happen to the Baron and his Spanish 'guests'. Then they took questions from the villagers, doing their utmost to reassure them all the while.

In their absence, Athos and Aramis returned to the hunting lodge and retrieved all the papers they had discovered there only the day before; it seemed so long ago now.

"It will take some time to go through all of these and put them in some semblance of order," Aramis said.

"There is more than enough there to prove Desmarais' treachery," Athos reminded him, "and I have further evidence that we can cross-reference with these if need be."

He paused and Aramis watched him, waiting for him to elucidate.

"I have the coded messages I received, plus my own reports." He took a deep breath. "They are hidden in the house."

It was clear that he really did not want to return to the place where he, Sylvie and Raoul had lived as a happy family, with the expectation of years unrolling ahead of them.

"Would you prefer it if I went?" Aramis offered gently. "You would have to tell me where you have concealed them."

At first, Aramis thought that Athos had not heard him, such was the length of the silence that stretched out between them before he answered.

"No," he said. "I will go. It will be the last time that I look upon the place but," and here he hesitated, "I would appreciate it if you would accompany me."

"Of course," Aramis agreed, honoured that Athos would let him be with him at what was likely to be a difficult time.

"Then we will go directly from here."

III

They began to head back to the chateau, veering along the road that took them through the village and out the other side and Aramis was conscious that Athos, never a great conversationalist, had ceased to talk completely, the frown creasing his brow evidence of his warring thoughts.

At length, he turned down a track and led the way to a yard. The first thing that struck Aramis was the ominous silence that pervaded the place. There were several small outbuildings as well as the larger barn, whose door flapped carelessly in the wind that had increased during the afternoon.

"We used to have several animals and some chickens," Athos explained matter-of-factly as he slipped from his mount and tethered it to a post. "I have a vague recollection of telling Bevard to take the lot and use them amongst the villagers."

He approached the house, a low-roofed, two storey building that looked well-maintained in its fabric.

"You made provision for their care when you knew you were leaving?" Aramis said, breaking into a jog to catch up.

Athos stopped dead and turned to face him. "Apparently he sat with me for three days. I remember none of that for I was so drunk. A couple of the women, including his wife, arrived to bring me some food. They never even got inside the house. They heard me raging, throwing and smashing anything I could lay my hands upon. Understandably, they were too frightened to venture any closer once they had seen me through the window and they went quickly for assistance. What I know now is what Henri told me when I woke up days later. I was so mad with drink, it took four of the men to subdue me and then I passed out. He stayed all that time, not knowing what I might be like on waking but fearful lest I harm myself. Henri is a good man and will look after everyone until their future is secured; people trust him. _I_ trust him."

He strode on to the front door and Aramis saw the trembling in his hand as he reached for the latch. It was not locked and the door slowly swung open.

"I apologise for the state of the place. As you will gather, I have allowed standards to fall of late. Sylvie would not be happy for you to see our home like this." At first, Athos' words were borne on a tide of bitterness but his last comment, muttered as though he did not expect Aramis to hear him, was filled with sadness.

Aramis looked about him as he entered and his eyes adjusted to the poorer light after the sunshine outside. A loud crunch underfoot indicated a smashed glass whilst dented pewter-ware was strewn across the floor amidst the debris of ruined furniture. The damaged table was askew and someone had gathered up chair seats and two stool tops, setting them beside a wall with their broken legs. A dresser stood against one wall, devoid of any of the household accoutrements one would expect to see displayed there. The handles of a drawer were smashed and whilst one door hung at a precarious angle, the other had broken off completely. It had to have been overturned at some point.

"I think Henri must have attempted to put the room to rights a little whilst he waited for me to awaken," Athos explained as if he had read the thought that had risen unbidden in Aramis' mind. "What I need is upstairs," and he started to climb the steep, narrow staircase, leaving Aramis alone on the ground floor.

Being two storeys, the house would have set Athos and Sylvie apart from the rest of the villagers and suggested some affluence, not least because it and its land belonged to him outright and were not rented. It afforded him the privacy he had not had at the garrison when he went from a single cell-like accommodation to sleeping in the corner of his office, as had been Tréville's custom before him. At least d'Artagnan and Constance had made the right decision when designs for the more extensive yet homely Captain's quarters had been designed in the rebuilding work.

Although it was still a far cry from the chateau he had grown up in and then inherited at Pinon, this had been Athos' home and had afforded him a taste of happiness and security that had alluded him for so long.

And now it was gone!

Aramis could barely imagine the drunken rage that had occasioned such destruction and he found it even harder to believe that it had come from Athos. In the years that he had known Athos drink to excess in a vain attempt to suppress his inner demons, he had tended to be a melancholic drunk. There were, admittedly, the times when flashes of inebriated temper had erupted into a fight, but Aramis and Porthos had usually been around to extricate him from the trouble he provoked or Porthos, with a reluctant shrug, had felled him with a powerful punch, thereby putting an abrupt end to his pugnacious attitude.

This, though, was new and spoke further of the inner turmoil and grief that he had so far been unable to express fully in either words or tears.

Aramis was suddenly aware that there was no noise emanating from upstairs, no booted step on the wooden floor and he hastened to join his friend, briefly looking into the other room on the ground level as he passed. On reaching the upper floor, he found two more rooms, one to the right and the other to the left. The one to the right, empty except for a small cot, hand-made rug and two chests, had obviously been Raoul's room so Aramis moved to the doorway of the other.

It had been Athos and Sylvie's room. A wooden double bed was the main piece of furniture, whilst two large chests – one positioned below the window – offered valuable storage. The bed was unmade, a sheet and colourful coverlet in such disarray that Aramis could envisage his drunk friend had fallen into it, slept restlessly and dragged himself from it three days later, only to walk away and leave it.

That and other memories had probably come to Athos as well for he stood, motionless, in the middle of the room, breathing hard and with an indescribable expression on his face.

"Athos?" Aramis breathed softly, hardly daring to break the moment but wanting to draw his friend back to the present. "Athos? Where are your papers?"

Snapping from his reverie, Athos went round to the far side of the bedhead, raised the corner of the thin mattress and started to feel along the wooden frame where the rope supports were laced. He withdrew a key and turned to the chest beneath the window behind him. Unlocking it, he lifted the lid and stared fixedly at the contents. Aramis did not approach him or speak again, instinct telling him that Athos needed to work through the next few minutes by himself. Suddenly, he grabbed a handful of the chest's contents, strewing them across the bed. With a sharp intake of breath, Aramis identified the items as women's clothing.

Athos dropped to his knees before the chest, his movements becoming more frantic and rapid as he pulled out Sylvie's belongings and threw them behind him, his eyes wild, breath ragged and his teeth clenched together.

Aramis wanted to admonish him, to take more care and then, just as suddenly, he understood, as with an epiphany. Athos was drawing on every ounce of willpower to touch what had once belonged to her, things that she had liked and loved, familiar items that she had worn. Everything in the chest reminded him of her in some way, piercing both his heart and memory. Fumbling with the base, it proved false – just as the floor had done in the hunting lodge – and he withdrew a roughly sewn bag, fashioned from simple sacking.

He rocked back on his heels and held the bag up.

"All the information I have is in here; I would have sent anymore to you in Paris," he said simply.

"You did not think to bring it with you when you left?" Aramis asked, bemused that Athos would leave behind the evidence of his work.

"I did not think," was the retort as Athos got to his feet. He stopped momentarily as his eyes were drawn to something on the bed and he took it up, stuffing it into a pocket, but not before Aramis had noted the ribbons, similar to the ones he had seen Sylvie wear, woven through her thick hair.

Aramis watched his friend go out the door and then looked back at the clothing deposited upon the bed, wondering if he should fold it properly and put it back in the chest. Athos' untidiness had been so deliberate that it was as if he were telling himself that it was of no consequence. Sylvie had no need of the items anymore and therefore they were no longer associated with her. If this was how his mind tried to accept the loss, then who was Aramis to act otherwise?

At the top of the stairs, he realised that Athos had only got as far as the boy's room and looked awkward, perched as he was on the side of the low cot whilst the fingers of one hand delicately followed the lines of something he held in the other. Aramis stepped forward slowly, quietly, and stood over his friend.

It was a toy soldier holding a sword and carved from wood and Aramis felt the spontaneous tears fill his own eyes. It was a musketeer, simply shaped but the clothing, hat, boots and, more importantly, the pauldron were unmistakable.

"I had Pierre in the village whittle this for me as I was incapable of such detailed work. I merely drew him a picture and talked him through it. I gave it to Raoul on his second birthday. He loved to hear tales of our time together, not the frightening stuff, of course. I had to keep you all fresh in my mind and heart just as you had told our stories to the orphans of Douai during the war."

Aramis crouched before him and cupped the back of his neck with his hand, drawing him forward until their foreheads touched.

"Oh Athos," he groaned softly and they stayed in that position for several minutes.

At last, Athos pulled back, his manner business-like as he dropped the figure into the pocket with the hair ribbons. "We must go for we have much to do. First Paris and then building an infallible case against Desmarais. That is the least I can do for Sylvie and Raoul now."

They left the house, Athos pulling the door shut behind him. Stepping backwards, he looked up at the building and gave a deep sigh.

"I will not pass this way again."


	43. Chapter 43

_**Dear all, thank you so much for the comments on the previous chapter; it certainly created a range of feelings and emotional responses. Perhaps this chapter won't be quite so extreme. This is not all of the original chapter 43 so you might be pleased to know there will be an 'extra' chapter as this one had to be cut in half almost!**_

 _ **I always appreciate feedback of any sort (it makes me think) and would take this opportunity to thank the Guest who took the trouble to write such a lengthy comment. You obviously feel very strongly about the 'canonical pairings', as you put it and you are perfectly entitled to your opinion. It would be very remiss, if not rude, of me not to respond in light of the time you must have taken and I have written a reply. Penned in the early hours of this morning, I would welcome the chance to peruse it once more before I post it. Without going into too much detail here, I do have Athos opening up gradually to Aramis rather than d'Artagnan for some very strong and definite reasons based on series and text. It's interesting to note that the same concern occurred to Aramis, that Athos was speaking to him, and I wrote this before your comment was submitted! I want to assure you that it was not written glibly; I thought long and hard throughout the writing process and I felt that Aramis was the best one to listen so I have written a lengthy justification on that and some of the other points you raised. I cannot write to you privately as you only messaged as a guest, so it will appear at the start of chapter 44. As usual it will be in bold and italics. People are free to read my reply or to skip over it to where the chapter begins properly. If, in my story telling, something is not clear, then I, as the writer, am at fault but I suspect that, when you have seen my reasons, we are going to have to smile, metaphorically shake hands, and agree to differ!**_

 _ **V**_

CHAPTER 43

I

By the time the two friends rode back into the chateau's yard, Aramis was more than a little worried about the morose mood into which Athos had fallen. He refused all attempts to draw him into conversation and seemed utterly lost in his thoughts so that Aramis eventually gave up and also fell silent.

As they dismounted, Athos handed the sack bag to Aramis. Porthos and d'Artagnan appeared in the doorway, smiling in greeting.

"I am not good company now," Athos admitted when he saw them waiting. "I need some time alone; I shall be in my room."

"What about food?" Aramis asked.

"Not hungry," was the abrupt answer and he strode off, passing his other brothers without even acknowledging them so that they turned to watch him go, their smiles fading.

"What's happened?" Porthos demanded as Aramis joined them.

"We have collected all the documents and stopped at Athos' house to pick up more."

"Athos' house?" d'Artagnan wondered if he had heard correctly.

Aramis nodded. "It was not easy for him; too many memories surfaced."

"Will he be all right?" d'Artagnan asked worriedly. He looked at the doorway through which Athos had disappeared.

"We'll leave him alone for a while and conclude everything here so that we can be on the road at first light. That way, we should be able to get within a few miles of Paris by nightfall. We had better be prepared to camp out; I really don't want to be finding an inn when we have four prisoners with us," Aramis was working things out in his head as he talked.

Porthos nodded. "I know we've dealt with worse but it might be an idea if we take a few men from the village with us to increase the guard. It shows we mean business given the valuable nature of our prisoners."

"Guard them from whom?" d'Artagnan bristled. "Athos?"

Aramis held out a gloved hand to restore peace for the tension had suddenly escalated.

"No, Porthos does not mean that. It is just in case any of Desmarais' men have a change of heart and decide to stage a rescue. It would be unwise for us to travel without taking precautions. Athos has given his word. The subject came up several times whilst we have been out this afternoon; he is resolved to get the Baron back to Paris and before a judge."

"Is it just me, or does he seem to be getting' worse?" Porthos asked.

"He is …" Aramis paused, searching for the right word. "…fragile, without a doubt, more so than I have ever seen and, I confess, it frightens me."

"That storm in him you were talkin' about," Porthos began. "You reckon it'll still hit and before we get back to Paris?"

"He is hanging on." The First Minister tried to sound reassuring. "I think he is measuring out his life in challenges: find and kill the men who slew his family, find the evidence against Desmarais' treachery, going after the man himself and bringing him to justice. He will want to see that same justice happen so, no, I do not think he will break before we get to Paris but once the Baron is executed …." His voice trailed off. "I do not know what he will do, how he will react or what incentive he will have for anything. Then, and only then, the full enormity of his loss will hit him, when he finally stops fighting."

"We 'ave to keep 'im in Paris with us then," Porthos declared. "We need to keep an eye on 'im."

"And what excuse will we give him when he wants to leave, as I am sure he will?" Aramis asked.

"It's his place, I mean; to be with us. We're family, brothers," Porthos reasoned.

"Brothers who have their own lives and, in the main, their own families," Aramis persisted, thinking of the strange and veiled relationship that he shared with the Queen and the son who could never be openly acknowledged as his.

"He will want to be gone, about the business of intelligencer once more, unless we can find him something to do that will keep him in Paris," d'Artagnan added.

"He will need to do something by which he can earn a living for he would not take kindly to charity or if he thought we had just concocted something for him to do. When he sells the smallholding here, it will give him funds for a while but it will not last for ever," Aramis was thinking aloud, recalling Athos' earlier comment about fearing that he might be too old to pursue his life as a spy.

"You think he will sell his land here?" d'Artagnan did not seem so sure.

"Without a doubt. You were not there in the house when he ….. He has closed the door quite literally on that chapter of his life."

Porthos brightened. "I've got it. You could _really_ give 'im the job as your secretary."

Aramis frowned. "I do not think that my existing secretary would be very impressed."

"You can never 'ave enough secretaries," Porthos encouraged. "Besides, that one you've got is gettin' too old. 'Bout time you replaced 'im."

Despite his concerns, Aramis chuckled. "Athos hated all the paperwork he had to do as a Captain. Can you really see him tied to a desk all day, every day, reading and writing reports and taking letters for me?"

"Why not make him your official spymaster?" d'Artagnan suggested. "You try to do that along with everything else at the moment, simply because Richelieu, Rochefort and then Tréville did it. Athos has a sharp mind and is a strategist; he will not have lost that ability. He could be on the road when he wanted or directly advising you once he has reviewed and analysed all the information that comes to him. I could see him working out codes for his agents to use. He could question the likes of the Spaniards we're holding."

Porthos was intrigued. "That's a really good idea. It would keep him challenged."

The two turned to Aramis, eager for him to make the suggestion work, anything to keep their brother with them. Aramis had to admit that he was warming to the idea. It would be a position of huge responsibility and authority, carrying status and appropriate remuneration and, if he were to be honest with himself, he hated all the secrecy and skulduggery it sometimes entailed.

"Failing that," d'Artagnan added, "I have another idea."

II

The next morning, as dawn broke, a sombre column left the chateau, watched by villagers who lined the road in a stern-faced silence. None of them would regret Desmarais' departure and whilst they might have rejoiced in their hearts, they could not suppress the growing apprehension about the length of time they would be without a lord and what that person might be like when they arrived. There was no denying the possibility that they could be replacing one monster with another.

Milady travelled, albeit reluctantly, by carriage, along with Desmarais and the two Spaniards. The three of them remained bound and she visibly held her small pistol in her lap. All having witnessed what she was capable of doing in a fight against men, none of them was about to risk attempting to overpower her within the confines of the carriage, not with the additional escort they had as well.

Porthos had procured the services of six men from the village: two rode ahead of the carriage, one either side of it and two immediately behind it. Benoit, wrists still tied, rode behind them whilst Porthos and d'Artagnan brought up the rear. They had initially objected, saying that, as serving officers, leading the column should be their responsibility but Aramis explained quietly to them that it would keep Athos ahead of the carriage so Desmarais, for a little while at least, would not potentially be within his sight.

He had not joined them for dinner the previous evening despite their entreaties, so d'Artagnan had taken him a tray of food and drink. Later, they found that he had consumed the wine but not touched the meal. Fortunately, there had not been enough for him to get drunk and he had the self-restraint not to demand more but his mood was black, growing worse as the evening and the night passed, for he slept little.

Aramis had the sense not to try to initiate conversation for there was no jollying him in his current frame of mind, so he merely contented himself in monitoring the other man's well-being by casting surreptitious glances in his direction as they rode side by side. It was as they were drawing level with the little cemetery that Aramis dared to take another glimpse and saw the turned head as if he were trying to catch one last sighting of a certain resting place.

The First Minister raised his hand and brought the column to a halt. He was sliding from the saddle when Athos turned abruptly to him, brow furrowed, eyes dark and voice low.

"Why have we stopped?"

Aramis gestured to one of the additional escort to ride forward and take his reins. Walking round the front of his mount to stand before Athos' horse, he tilted his head back to look up at him.

"I would like to pay my respects to Sylvie and Raoul," he said simply. "Will you show me where they are?"

Athos looked beyond him to the rows of markers. "No!" he said defiantly.

Aramis sighed. "Then will you at least tell me where I can find them?"

There was no answer. Instead, Athos pointed towards the far corner of the plot.

"Thank you," Aramis said softly and headed in that general direction. In his peripheral vision, he saw d'Artagnan and Porthos dismount and walk swiftly to join him.

"You know what I am doing?" he asked as they began to thread their way between the graves.

"Naturally," Porthos answered. "You're wantin' 'im to face things, like yesterday."

"If he is so determined that he will never come here again, I want him to have the chance to say a last goodbye."

They found the grave and stood, side by side, hats in hands as they bowed their heads respectfully.

"'Cept we're the ones here an' he's still out there on his horse," Porthos muttered eventually.

"He'll come," Aramis asserted. "Give it time."

They continued to stand there.

"'Ow much time?"

"As long as it takes," Aramis said with a certainty he did not feel. How much pushing could Athos endure, even at this point? This had become a battle of wills and Aramis was adamant that he would be the victor.

"I'll make myself useful then," d'Artagnan announced and, crouching, he began to pull up the weeds that had started to sprout on and around the grave itself.

"I'm headin' back to mount up," Porthos stated and, when Aramis glanced at him sharply, he continued, "to resume guardin' the prisoners. We can't leave 'em all with just Milady an' some untrained villagers. If Athos is lookin' for an excuse not to come in 'ere, that'd be it."

Aramis shrugged and looked at d'Artagnan making headway with the weeding. "That is a very reasonable assumption."

Porthos huffed, donned his hat and headed back to where the column patiently waited. At least Desmarais had the sense to remain quiet and Milady was saying nothing, although Porthos could see her watching from the carriage window.

Athos had not moved and now stared resolutely down the road in the direction they were heading.

D'Artagnan, having finished his spontaneous task, pushed himself up and dusted his hands down against his thighs.

"You know, he really may not want to come in here," he said quietly. "This is too painful for him. Do you want to make him fall apart now?"

"He won't," Aramis asserted. "He still has some serious work ahead in compiling the case against Desmarais; we have all that is necessary."

"You seem very sure?"

"I am. In fact, here he comes." He had manoeuvred himself so that he could see his friend in his peripheral vision and had seen Athos dismount, remove his gloves and begin to walk purposefully in their direction. As the bereaved man reached them, Aramis nodded towards him. "We will leave you and let you have some privacy. I won't be far."

He and d'Artagnan slowly walked back to the road, the column and to Porthos.

"You were right in the end," d'Artagnan said.

"Don't say 'I told you so'," Porthos said in warning.

"I would not dream of it," Aramis replied, his face serious, "but he has honoured me of late by trusting me enough to begin to open up a little and say some interesting things. I would not have him pass by the opportunity of saying his farewells and then regretting it later."

"He may have already said his farewells in his heart," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"You may be right 'cause he's not taken long. He's comin' back already," Porthos announced.

"I hope that you do not feel left out that he has been speaking to me a little?" Aramis looked from one to the other in consternation.

D'Artagnan seemed amazed that such a thought should cross his mind and shook his head vigorously.

"Not at all," Porthos reassured him. "I'm just glad that he's beginnin' to talk to one of us. Hush now, he's here."

But Athos walked past them without a word, head down, hat pulled low and his face an expressionless mask as he went to his horse, swung up into the saddle and sat facing the road ahead.

"That went well then," Porthos sighed and walked towards the rear of the column, d'Artagnan following in his wake.

III

In the end the return journey to Paris was uneventful and incredibly quiet. Desmarais sank into a self-pitying silence; the Spaniards muttered between themselves but then, suspecting that Milady could speak Spanish like Aramis, clammed up and refused to say anything beyond a 'thank you' when they were given food and drink; Benoit tried to ingratiate himself with d'Artagnan and Porthos but the former was distracted by his idea for Athos' future and the latter sat scowling in his saddle, thereby deterring any small talk. The villagers who had pulled the impromptu escort detail were overwhelmed by everything and hardly dared speak to each other, let alone address the awe-inspiring men with whom they rode.

Aramis knew better than to try to get Athos to talk so he contented himself by humming little ditties that he had heard in the city and, when he had exhausted that repertoire, he began to compose his own. It was some time before he was aware of Athos staring hard at him.

"Your tuneless noise is a …. distraction."

"My apologies. I only thought to entertain myself on our long journey; I did not intend to distract you from your deliberations."

They continued on for some way before Athos spoke again. "I was thinking of the evidence and how best to structure it for the courts."

"I am glad that you are keeping yourself occupied, my friend, but you can rest from its demands, you know."

"I want the case ready and Desmarais facing the charges as quickly as possible."

"We all want that," Aramis reassured him. "And then what?" He was thinking of the conversation he had had earlier with Porthos and d'Artagnan and hoped that Athos might reveal his future plans.

He did and, as Aramis feared, they were not what he wanted to hear.

"I shall stay as long as it takes for Desmarais' execution and then I will be gone."

Aramis tried to hide his disappointment. He yearned for Athos to stay longer, to rest and find some inner peace that currently eluded him, to contemplate properly the unfolding tomorrows and what they might hold for him. No, it appeared that Athos was going to do what he was good at, he thought bitterly, and he was about to do it again; it was tantamount to running, running from the bad and its associated memories.

He left Pinon when his wife murdered his brother; handed the land rights over to his tenants when Baron Renard's threat had been eliminated; left Paris when Tréville was slaughtered and he had at last killed Grimaud; had declared only yesterday that he would never revisit the smallholding near Louviers again and now, just when they were all re-united and could enjoy some time together in Paris, he announced his intention not to remain. Aramis was far from convinced that it was the right course of action in the circumstances.

He tried to keep his voice light. "And what will you do? Where will you go?"

Athos took a deep breath. "Into the northern regions, visit my agents, ensure that the network is solid so that there can be no further breaches by the Spanish as we have seen here."

"You will return to being an intelligencer?" Aramis wanted to make sure that he had heard correctly. Perhaps d'Artagnan's initial idea might work.

"For the time being. I have to do something to earn my way. The sale of the smallholding and house should provide a reasonable sum but it will take time to negotiate and the revenue raised will not last for ever. I have to be practical. There may only be me to worry about now but I still have to live."

They rode on in silence. Aramis went cold at the realisation that what he had said to Porthos and d'Artagnan as a possibility was already a hard and fast decision in Athos' mind. He sought the words to persuade him to stay but suspected that his friend had already formed a list of reasons why he should not and, if truth be told, the First Minister was afraid of hearing them.


	44. Chapter 44

_**Dear all, thank you so much for the feedback on the last chapter. Chapter 43 was 'halved' and now 44 is so long, I have had to create an extra chapter. I WILL get to the end soon!**_

 _ **As I said, I would respond to the 'Guest' of chapter 42. Here it is; apologies for the length but I wanted to explain clearly my rationale. To my Guest reviewer, once again I thank you for your time and effort in writing such a long comment and for doing it in a second language. To my shame, I would not be able to do it!**_

 _ **I am delighted that you are enjoying the story in general but sad that you feel it fails on a significant point such as the 'canonical pairings' as you put it. You say my deviation is not justified so I hope to rectify that here.**_

 _ **The BBC's version changes the canon of Dumas' story on so many levels, as well as the history. I have always made it clear that I will, as far as possible, stay with the canon of both and many readers have expressed their appreciation of that. It is one reason why I called Athos' son Raoul, as Dumas did. (I just killed him much earlier!) I stated at the very beginning that this story is three years after S3 finished and therefore uncharted territory. All four men are older, have been changed by circumstances and have significantly different roles. They are NOT the men of S1. So why does Athos speak to Aramis?**_

 _ **Athos, Aramis and Porthos were a close band of brothers some five years before d'Artagnan came along.**_

 _ **In the show, they went off to undertake tasks in a range of different combinations; they did not frequently slip into the Athos/d'Artagnan and Aramis/Porthos pairings. It was 'all for one'.**_

 _ **It is Aramis, with help from Porthos (and not d'Artagnan), who stops Athos from killing Milady in S1E10 when she is on her knees and he has his rapier at her throat as she goads him to 'finish what he started'.**_

 _ **Athos and Aramis shared the treacherous secret of Aramis' infidelity with the Queen for over a year as the Dauphin was several months old by the time the 'secret' was out in S2E9-10.**_

 _ **Athos' greeting of Aramis with a kiss when Milady has rescued him in S2E10 speaks volumes of their deep friendship that was often understated in the show.**_

 _ **When Aramis announces his departure later in S2E10, Athos is the first to embrace him and explains to Porthos that Aramis is 'letting them go'. He understands the man well.**_

 _ **In S3E1, it is Athos speaking with Aramis in the church at Douai when the latter decides to re-join them after 4 years, something that Porthos finds very difficult at first because he has missed him so much and is still angry with him.**_

 _ **Between S2 and S3, 4 years have elapsed. Aramis was not there and Athos was adjusting to his new role of Captain so it is very likely that Porthos and d'Artagnan spent more time together.**_

 _ **Disagreements were rife and tensions high between them during S3 but it is Porthos and d'Artagnan who face death together in the explosion mid-series.**_

 _ **Another reviewer reminded me of S2E5 when Athos bitterly tells d'Artagnan, "You do not know me." D'Artagnan admires, respects, follows and loves his brother but there is much about Athos that remains private.**_

 _ **Earlier in the story, I even said that Aramis and d'Artagnan had gravitated more towards each other for companionship in the absence of their brothers.**_

 _ **Those 'brotherly' relationships have likewise altered. They are not the brothers-in-arms that they were (so the recent Battle of the Chateau was refreshing!) They are not fighting lots of enemies or having to "watch each other's backs" as they did. Two of them are married (three technically if you count Athos/Milady) and then there is Aramis' situation.**_

 _ **It is because of d'Artagnan's impending fatherhood that Athos does not and cannot open up to him about the devastating loss of his own child and partner (see this chapter.) He identifies more with Aramis who cannot be publicly acknowledged as the King's father.**_

 _ **In S1E3, Athos 'talks' to d'Artagnan because he is incredibly drunk and traumatised at discovering his wife is still alive. Perhaps it is also easier to say what he has not told the others because d'Artagnan is still relatively 'new' and Athos is fearful of the others judging him too harshly, which is why he does not want d'Artagnan to mention it to them and probably because he regrets opening up as much as he has in an unguarded moment. They only know there was a woman whom he must have loved and she had died.**_

 _ **He admits to another 'stranger' that he was previously married – Ninon.**_

 _ **I confess to not fully following your argument regarding Milady. I do not see her as a 'catalyst' for Athos and d'Artagnan's relationship; they would have been 'brothers' whatever. They did not make the link between her as d'Artagnan's mysterious benefactress and Athos' wife until between S1E9 and 10.**_

 _ **The BBC did not tell us what Treville knew. I like to think he knew more than Aramis and Porthos but not all of it. When Athos went berserk during Ninon's trial, no-one knew Milady's identity then. Treville, as with the others, would only have known final facts from Athos telling them all between E9 and 10 for the entrapment of the S1 finale to work. Richelieu managed to find out quickly enough that Milady and Athos were married (and probably Athos' noble rank) when his suspicions were aroused as to why she picked Athos to discredit in S1E1. It would be easy for Treville to find out too, as some ff have shown.**_

 _ **Milady was a pivotal story arc in S1 but only because d'Artagnan did not know her true identity or her part in Athos' life. In S2, it was the King who was part of this strange triangle and not d'Artagnan.**_

 _ **Yes, Athos took on the role as d'Artagnan's mentor, which suggests a closeness but who's to say one of the others didn't similarly mentor him for their friendship to develop? We were not told the finer points of their back stories in the series – it has largely been left to FF writers, who have chosen to emphasise 'pairings' of the brothers.**_

 _ **Here I am, trying to portray a very private man who has kept so much heartache to himself for so long that, with this new tragedy, he is finally at breaking point. His brothers (primarily Aramis and Porthos) had witnessed him trying to drink his demons into oblivion for years and I did not want to repeat that 'solution' after his initial drunken rage. He is focused on revenge and some kind of justice. At the end of S3, he was struggling with honour, duty and the law (part of the reason for his departure) and he questions that again in my story.**_

 _ **I suspect (spoiler alert) that you will not like my penultimate chapter then. Because of his withdrawn character and the caring and spiritual nature of Aramis, this is the closest Athos comes to the confessional, something he has avoided for years. He may think God has abandoned him or that he is unworthy of God's forgiveness, but his Catholic upbringing is still ingrained in him as seen in S2 when he crosses himself in relief that Treville survives the surgery when he was shot in the back.**_

 _ **In short, I am trying to explore a different level of Athos here. Again, I stress that it is new territory. I have listened to what you say about d'Artagnan being the one to whom Athos would talk. I am sorry that you don't like the angle I have taken but I hope that I have explained and justified it here (I thought about it long and hard at the story's inception and have rooted it in the BBC canon), so I hope we can smile and agree to differ!**_

 _ **And so, to chapter 44 where loose ends begin to be tied up ...**_

CHAPTER 44

I

The weary column of men and animals threaded their way under the archway and into the garrison yard. Immediately, musketeers and stable boys appeared to hold reins and steady mounts. One opened the door of the carriage and offered a hand to allow Milady to descend stiffly and stand amidst the hustle and bustle around her. Her eyes appraised the changes for she had not had reason to visit the place in the intervening years since the _Inseparables_ had, in fact, separated.

"Changed, hasn't it?" d'Artagnan asked, standing beside her and correctly guessing her thoughts. When she nodded in agreement, he looked around with a sense of well-deserved pride, trying to see the place as she was seeing it - for the first time. He acknowledged the greetings and informal salutes of the men who had gathered to extend their welcome and stare in curiosity at the travellers in the carriage who remained under guard.

"Legrande!" he called and waited for a man, well-built and in his late twenties, to approach. "Select eleven men and take the carriage's occupants to the Chatelet, along with that man there," and he indicated to where Benoit still sat atop his horse. "They are to be looked after properly and, preferably, held in individual cells. Tell the prison governor that I will be there myself within two hours when I shall explain the need for their incarceration and provide funds for their care. _Nothing_ is to happen to any of these men between now and my arrival. If one of them trips getting out of the carriage and suffers the slightest bruise, I shall hold him personally responsible, you understand?"

The man nodded vehemently.

"Good," d'Artagnan continued. "When I see him, I shall take great delight in impressing upon him the need for these men to remain in perfect health. In the meantime," his eyes anxiously searched the yard and doorways, "I need to see my ….."

He need not have worried for an enthusiastic shout carried his name on the air and Constance hastened to meet him. He had only been gone a few days but he was staggered at the difference in her that had occurred in his absence. Slower, even bigger if that were possible, she moved without her usual fire, grace and speed. He wanted to hold her tight, sweep her off her feet and spin her around until she laughed dizzily but a sudden nervousness restrained him. It was clear that her time was now very near and he was almost afraid to touch her.

It was Constance who threw herself at him, arms around his neck and trying to pull herself as comfortably close as possible, even as she smothered him with kisses. Her own cheeks were wet with a mixture of happy and relieved tears, her words tumbling out in breathy excitement.

Porthos laughed at the reunion, his thoughts already turning to one of his own. "I need to see Elodie to let her know I am back." He glanced at Milady. "I doubt you'd want to travel any further with those miscreants. If you'd like, I can get another carriage to take you home and send yours on afterwards."

She shook her head. "I just want to go home. If I may borrow a horse from the stables here, I will ride. My luggage and carriage can follow."

Porthos gave her a slight bow. "After what you've done for us when we got ourselves a bit tied up back there, I'd count it an honour if you'd let me escort you to your door on my way home."

She studied him closely, anticipating one last mockery, but there was no evidence of it in his expression. "You are a gentleman, Porthos. I accept; thank you."

Aramis called for another horse, the calmest one available, and stepped towards her to make his own farewell whilst they waited.

"Thank you, Ann, for not ending Desmarais and for helping us out the way you did."

Although touched by his graciousness, she made a show of brushing it off. "Well, in the end, it was not my place to deal with the dreadful man, was it? If it were left to any of us, it should be Athos, that was plain."

At the mention of his name, both glanced in his direction. He had dismounted and, for a moment, he just stood there, utterly lost, as though he had never seen the place before, did not know what to do nor where he should go. Suddenly, he snapped out of it, reached for his saddle bag which contained all the documentation he had gathered and strode into the building which housed the room that he had been assigned.

Ann's green eyes were troubled. "I will see the Queen tomorrow to make my report for I am sure you will inform her in the meantime of what has happened."

"That is my intention," he assured her. A saddled horse was already being led out of the stable towards them; their time was short.

"I will not disturb Athos now to take my leave; I doubt that he would welcome my presence anyway," she said softly.

"He is unpredictable at present," Aramis conceded tactfully.

"He has much on his mind but I would not like to think of him leaving Paris before I had a chance to speak to him one last time though; I suspect that is his intention."

"You too!" He had no idea she was having similar thoughts to the rest of them.

"If he questions my motives, it is not to cause him further pain. We have done that to each other too often in the past; the time for that has gone. No, for what we once meant to each other, I would like the chance to say a proper goodbye if he would allow it." She laid her hand on the back of Aramis' wrist, her long, elegant fingers cool against his skin. "Please put in a good word for me."

"I will, have no fear."

She nodded and paused again. "I have never seen him like this and I am sure that I do not like it. I know there was a time when I wished upon him the worst agonies imaginable but not now and certainly not in the way that this pain has been caused. I have deliberately goaded him in the past to see the kind of reaction that might ensue but no more. Right now, he is not the man I married."

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "For the love I bore him once – and I did love him – I ask you to look after him, please. Do not leave him. He is a boat adrift, the sea far from calm, and you are the lifeline that can pull him to the shore once more."

Aramis struggled with his own emotions at her unexpected and heartfelt honesty and he tried to make light of it to ease the tension. "And we all know what Athos is like on the open sea."

Her laugh hitched on a half sob. "Useless, utterly useless and he hates being so helpless, so vulnerable. It affects his pride and his manhood and he does not want anyone to know."

They both laughed a little awkwardly now, uncertain as to whether she was commenting upon Athos' propensity for debilitating seasickness* or referring to his inability to face and deal with his emotions, preferring instead to lock them away, suppressing them for as long as possible.

He took her by the arm and led her the few steps to where the stable boy stood patiently with the horse. She would have to ride astride and, hitching her skirts, she allowed Aramis to boost her easily into the saddle. As she reached for the reins, he caught her hand in his own and raised it to his lips. It was in sharp contrast to the way he had greeted her a few days before; there was none of the exhibitionist in his gesture now.

"I swear to you, Ann, that as long as I have breath in my body and am able, I will look out for him."

Dark brown eyes met green and, in that long, silent exchange, she knew that she could trust him.

"You ready?" Porthos asked quietly as he eased his mount alongside hers, not really wanting to disturb the obviously serious conversation that they were having.

She nodded and Aramis stepped back as she urged her horse onwards at a sedate pace, hampered as she was by her voluminous skirt. He watched them go as d'Artagnan, Constance at his side and clutching his arm as if afraid that he might suddenly disappear again, gave the order for the prisoners to follow under escort.

The yard was swiftly emptied as men resumed their business whilst the horses had disappeared into stables to be fed, watered and groomed.

Constance, still fastened to d'Artagnan by one hand, reached out to Aramis with the other. He clasped it tightly and planted a kiss on both her cheeks as she welcomed him.

"It is so good to see you back safely," she said happily. "I have missed you all. I had forgotten what it was like to have you all in the same room. Did everything work out the way you wanted? Who were those men that were taken to the Chatelet?"

D'Artagnan kissed her forehead. "All in good time, my love. I will tell you everything but I think, right now, we could do with something to slake our thirsts."

He led the way back into their married quarters but Aramis hesitated at the kitchen door.

"I will be back for that drink, but want to look in on Athos." He directed his comment to d'Artagnan and Constance could not miss the worry on their faces.

"What is it? What's the matter?" she demanded. "Is he well?"

Aramis sighed. "In body, yes, but not so well in mind. He has found it a struggle and now we must prepare to bring Desmarais to court."

He left d'Artagnan explaining as he went quietly along the corridor to the door of Athos' room. It was not shut and he could see the hive of activity within. Athos was packing.

"Leaving already? I thought you were staying for the trial," he said quietly.

Athos did not stop what he was doing, roughly folding the few items he had not taken with him to Louviers and stuffing them into a sack bag that he had found somewhere.

"I am but I cannot stay here."

"Why ever not? You are d'Artagnan and Constance's guest?" Aramis could not fathom a reason for the abrupt change.

"And have you seen her?" Athos reeled round on him. "She will have their child any day now."

Aramis was out of his depth. "And you cannot face being here because it reminds you of Raoul?"

"No!" Athos was incredulous and then sank to sit on the bed. "Yes, a little." Aramis moved to settle beside him as he sought to explain. "This is their time; the last days of it being just the two of them. I remember it well. They do not want me hanging around, especially in my present mood. They will be afraid to say anything in case it upsets me."

A sudden burst of laughter from the kitchen was heard and they both looked at the door as if seeking the reason for the merriment.

"My point exactly," Athos went on. "This is a time for laughter, for closeness, for anticipation and a small dose of worry – theirs, not mine or about me." His voice caught, "And yes, it does remind me of when Raoul was born."

"Where will you go?" Aramis asked, his tone suggesting that he thought Athos was making a logical, reasonable point whilst his heart and mind felt the exact opposite.

"I will find a room at a nearby inn for as long as it takes." He meant the trial and execution of Desmarais.

"You most certainly will not!" Aramis leaped to his feet, snatched up a shirt which Athos had not yet packed and bundled it into the sack. "You are coming with me to the palace."

"What?"

Aramis sat down again. "I have an apartment at the palace, a suite of rooms. I rattle around in them on my own so there is plenty of space for you too." He lifted a hand when Athos made to object. "You do not have to stir from there to mingle with anyone else at court and I can order food to be brought in." He gave a wry grin. "And I have access to some excellent red wines."

"You think you can bribe me with some red wine?" It was a bold accusation and Aramis was momentarily concerned that he had overstepped the mark but then he caught the glimmer in Athos' eyes, something that had been sorely missing, especially during the past few days.

"Shame on you for thinking that I would stoop so low! I was merely thinking that the wine would help us as we prepared our case together."

"It is tempting," Athos seemed to mull over the proposition.

Aramis tried more emotional blackmail. "I could not, with a clear conscience, have you staying at some flea-ridden inn eating tough mutton or dead dog stew when I have far better facilities."

"And a good red wine," Athos reminded him.

"And an _excellent_ red wine," Aramis corrected.

Athos managed a tentative smile to reassure Aramis for he knew full well what his friend was doing and why. If he were honest with himself, the palace was far more appealing than the alternative and he knew the place well, knew exactly where he could hide if he needed seclusion from Aramis' well-meaning ebullience. "You have convinced me."

II

The days passed rapidly.

D'Artagnan dare not stray long or far from the garrison as two false alarms had them thinking the baby was on its way. By the time they both realised that the second one was also not real labour, Constance was able to laugh and d'Artagnan was nothing short of a nervous wreck. He delegated more and more work within the garrison to others because he could not concentrate and began making stupid errors in calculations for stores, seriously under-ordering a staple ingredient of flour and vastly over-ordering on some meat stuff. Fortunately, the mistake was recognised before he received an inordinately large request for payment. In the end, others did the tallying and he signed for things. Even the mundane nature of the rota was taken on in good humour by Brujon.

Porthos, fully recovered now, was expected to return to the front and he was reading reports and meeting with other military leaders to develop their strategies against the Spanish.

He was also responsible for questioning many of the prisoners who had been brought from Louviers. He began with those whom Brujon had brought back to Paris but it was quickly evident that they had not really committed any major crime. They, like many of Desmarais' tenants, had been struggling to pay the increased tax demands, objected and then pleaded with the Baron before being caught up in the fatal events which had resulted in the burning of the meeting hall as well as the injuries and deaths of some villagers, including Sylvie and Raoul.

There was no case for which they had to answer so Aramis ordered their release. He gave remuneration to an innkeeper near the garrison to give accommodation and food to the former prisoners and the six villagers who had made up the escort. He wanted them to remain in Paris until after the trial in case they were needed as witnesses and then they could all travel home together in safety.

Porthos then turned his attention to Benoit who had decided by now to be as helpful as possible in the hope that his sojourn in the chatelet would be as brief as possible. Aramis had mooted as such on more than one occasion but he wanted to keep the man guessing and hoping. He made sure that Benoit saw the release of the other prisoners but was determined to detain him until the outcome of the trial was known.

Whilst Athos worked primarily on putting together the case against Desmarais, Aramis had the Spanish agents brought to him, confronted them with the evidence and sought to elicit any helpful information from them. When the best they would share was information confirming Desmarais' treachery, Aramis, who abjured torture, returned them to their respective cells on the understanding that that was where they would remain for the duration of the war with Spain unless they could come up with anything more useful. The damage to France and her forces in the north had been minimal but that was not going to save Desmarais; his betrayal and intentions were exceedingly clear and the unpardonable treatment of his tenants was an abuse of his responsibility and authority.

Apart from occasional discussions with the Queen and the council, Aramis spent the rest of the time with Athos, drinking that promised red wine as they poured over the documents and created a convincing case, finally meeting with the presiding judge to present their argument.

 _ *** Told in 'Retribution'.**_


	45. Chapter 45

_**Dear all, apologies once more for the delay. Work is manic as the exam season hits and we are in final rehearsals for the play that opens a week tomorrow but here is the next instalment. Only two more chapters after this one; the countdown is on!**_

CHAPTER 45

I

The afternoon before the trial began, d'Artagnan stood in the garrison yard, bellowed Brujon's name and, when the musketeer appeared, insisted that he accompany him into the married quarters. Brujon followed, discomforted by the order for the d'Artagnans' home was private and the soldiers knew not to disturb them there unless in the event of an emergency.

Constance was already sitting at the table, refusing to recline in a lower, cushioned chair by the fire as she found getting to her feet again difficult and frustrating without assistance. The expression on her face indicated that she was far from happy at the prospect of this discussion and a frostiness emanating from her suggested that there had been a disagreement between the d'Artagnans in the immediate past, especially when there was a false lightness about the Captain as he bade Brujon sit at the table as well.

"There is no need for this," Constance began, her voice strained.

"There is every need, my love. I wish to attend Desmarais' trial. I do not anticipate that it will last long but I cannot do so with an easy conscience when your time is so near," d'Artagnan said softly, obviously endeavouring to appease her.

Brujon looked from one to the other of them, a sense of dread filling him as he wondered what part he was about to be instructed to play.

"Brujon," and d'Artagnan flashed another uneasy smile in the young man's direction, "I wish to give you specific tasks for the duration of the trial."

"Yes, Captain." The panic was building.

"You are to remain with Madame d'Artagnan every moment that I am away from the garrison."

"Every moment?" There was an unnatural falsetto in Brujon's voice when he immediately conjured moments when he most definitely would _not_ want to be in Madame d'Artagnan's company.

D'Artagnan realised at the same time. "Well, not _every_ moment, but you are to stay in these quarters. You may bring work to do at the kitchen table." He sensed Constance opening her mouth to object vehemently about mess within her kitchen and hastily added, "within reason, of course; nothing that would make the place dirty. You will ignore all instructions I have given you in recent days. This will take priority. On this paper," and he took a folded piece from his pocket and pushed it across the table towards Brujon, "is the name and address of the woman we have secured to act as midwife to Madame d'Artagnan.

"You will keep two horses saddled at all time in the yard. The moment anything happens, when it seems that the baby is on its way, you will send two men on urgent errands. One will go to the midwife and bring her back; the other will come to the court to fetch me. Do you understand?"

Brujon nodded, his eyes wide in terror at the task he had been assigned. He was not quite sure whom he feared most; the Captain or the feisty wife. In his mind, Constance would only have to gasp suddenly and he would be sending for help. He was not cut out to act as a midwife; he did not have a clue what would be expected and he had a horrible suspicion that Madame d'Artagnan would not be seeking assistance at the first sign. She would be maintaining her own silence until she decided.

Why, oh why, could he not be sent on a mission delivering an important document through bandit infested country? Why couldn't General Porthos stride through the door at that moment and instruct him to drop all else because they were returning to the front immediately?

Anything would be better than having to keep Madame d'Artagnan company when she did not want it!

D'Artagnan was rising to his feet; it seemed the meeting had come to a close. Brujon scrambled to his feet but the Captain waved a hand to stop him. "You might as well take on your new responsibility right now; I am going to the palace to see how Aramis and Athos are faring with the arrangements for tomorrow. I am sure there are things my wife would wish to discuss with you."

And he was gone, out into the sunshine and freedom, escaping from the room which, in Brujon's mind at least, had suddenly grown very much smaller. He sensed Constance glaring at him and he turned to face her. As he did so, her anger melted away and the smile she gave him was nothing short of pure evil!

"So, Brujon, it seems we are stuck with each other, thanks to my well-meaning husband. No matter, we have spent plenty of time working together in the past and we will do so now."

"Working, Madame?" Brujon stammered. "But shouldn't you be resting?"

That, he was soon to find out, was exactly the wrong thing to say to a heavily pregnant woman who had a whole gamut of emotions running rampant through her. She pushed herself slowly to her feet with as much elegance as she could muster and towered over him, a veritable Goliath to his David.

"If you think I am going to sit here at my ease when I can see a long list of chores that need to be done before this baby arrives, then you had better think again. In the absence of my husband, you will do. We will start immediately; these quarters need to be cleaned from top to bottom. I will do what I can but the awkward and heavy work will be down to you; at that point, I will supervise. Do you understand?"

Brujon's jaw dropped and he nodded mutely, not daring to contradict her. His eyes ranged over the room, the environment already cleaner than most areas of the garrison, given the dust and the volume of traffic afforded by man and horse. What he wouldn't give for a Spanish scouting party right now!

II

Athos' failure to sleep began the night before the trial opened. He was not noisy – far from it – but Aramis had woken in the early hours and could hear soft footfalls pacing the floor. Brief pauses suggested that the perpetrator was standing still or even sitting somewhere and then the relentless walking to and fro would resume.

After a further thirty minutes when it became obvious that there was to be no proper respite, Aramis rose, shrugged on a robe and opened his door. Undetected, he leaned against the door jamb and watched his friend's disturbing behaviour as he circumnavigated the room, repeatedly running hands distractedly through his hair.

"This will not help, you know. You need to get some rest," Aramis said softly as Athos passed him for the third time, still seemingly oblivious to his presence.

Abandoning the doorway, Aramis intercepted his friend on the next circle, bringing him to an abrupt halt. Athos was first surprised and then apologetic.

"I did not mean to wake you," he said.

"And you didn't," Aramis lied. "I was restless and then heard you up and about so thought that I would join you. Come, let us sit and while away a little time with a glass or two but you must promise me that there will be no further discussion about tomorrow. We have exhausted all possible eventualities and can never be more ready that we are at this moment."

III

In the courtroom, as people filled every available space and waited eagerly for the commencement of the trial, Athos looked drawn, dark smudges round his eyes from lack of rest. Aramis did not appear any better after his own disturbed night.

"You look rough," Porthos said to the Minister in lieu of any other greeting.

"Thank you," Aramis was sarcastic. "That makes me feel much better!"

"Bad night?" d'Artagnan was more sympathetic.

"Athos was not sleeping so I sat with him for a couple of hours and we drank more wine," Aramis explained.

"Don't tell me he is hungover, today of all days?" d'Artagnan groaned.

"Far from it," Aramis assured him. "He is exercising an incredible level of self-discipline where that is concerned; I drank more than him! It is fortunate since he has hardly eaten anything since we returned from Louviers. I have tried tempting him with a range of dishes from the palace kitchens without success."

"If he is not careful, he will be as ill as he was when he first came back to Paris," d'Artagnan said worriedly.

Porthos had even darker thoughts. "You don't think he's giving up, do you? That starvin' 'imself is one sign of it 'cause he can't see the point?"

That extreme outcome was not something that had occurred to Aramis and he looked across the room to where Athos had positioned himself so that he could study the whole courtroom, leaning against a wall as if he needed its support to remain on his feet. He had refused to take one of the very few available chairs.

"I hope not," was all the Minister had time to whisper as the judge entered.

The court was in session and proceedings appeared to be little more than a formality, such was the evidence stacked against the Baron. The information Athos and Aramis had provided for the judge was presented before the court. Athos was called to explain how he had come by the evidence, his knowledge of the estate and the way the Baron ran things. It had been pre-arranged with the judge that no mention of Athos' other role of an intelligencer for the crown should be mentioned; in fact, the judge was only apprised of his employment when the situation became necessary and an adequate response to the judge's inquiries became increasingly difficult. It was more hinted at than explained but it satisfied the man. Now, in court, all anyone needed to know was that Athos was a private landowner next to the estate and his family had been the victims of brutal treatment meted out by the Baron's own men.

A few of the other villagers were called to give their own eye-witness accounts in the afternoon. They were not all needed as their stories would not have been dissimilar but each person seemed to take ages, overwhelmed as he was by the auspicious surroundings so that answers had to be prised from them more often than not or they were reminded to speak up so that they could be heard by all.

The tedium of the day wore on and, by the time the judge adjourned proceedings until the next morning, the mood of the court had little sympathy for the northern Baron. With the exception of Athos' testimony, which had already been heard, the most damning accounts were yet to be heard. Benoit had not taken much persuasion to give evidence against his former employer in exchange for a very early release from the Chatelet and even the Spanish agents had relented and signed statements that confirmed Desmarais' involvement with the enemy of France.

Those were to be read out in court the next day in their absence. Very few knew that the Spanish agents were already under a heavy musketeer escort back to the northern border for their change of heart and compliance in providing additional evidence against the Baron that had not been found in the records he had maintained. Fortunately for France, Desmarais was not as important to the Spanish as he had presumed, nor was his information and, as a consequence, little damage had been done. They were tired of him and there would have shortly been a cessation of their association with him anyway so, on reflection, they were quite happy to denounce him and no pain had been inflicted.

Later in the evening after the first day of the trial, Athos and Aramis sat at the dining table in the Minister's palace apartment. There was only the two of them for d'Artagnan had hurried back to Constance's side and Porthos wanted to spend as much time as he could with Elodie and his adopted daughter before he left once more for the front.

Aramis pushed away his empty plate and stared with dismay at the amount remaining on the plate of his friend. Porthos' concern expressed to him only that morning was going round in his mind. Athos had eaten a few mouthfuls before he resorted to his usual behaviour; re-arranging it, toying with it as if in some vague attempt to make it appear that he had eaten more.

"If it is not to your liking, I can easily order you something else," Aramis offered in another indication of how circumstances had changed for him.

Athos, jolted out of his reverie, shook his head. "Thank you, but no. I do not have much of an appetite this evening."

It was on the tip of Aramis' tongue to retort that he never seemed to have much of an appetite but thought better of it, not wanting to pressurise his friend. Instead, he leaned forward and refilled Athos' wine goblet, unable to suppress a yawn as he did so.

"I apologise," Athos observed. "I disturbed your sleep last night. You should retire and get your rest."

Aramis looked sheepish. "The failing is mine. It must be age and soft living creeping up on me for I do seem to need my sleep these days."

Athos arched an eyebrow disbelievingly.

"But what about you? Are you ready to retire?" Aramis asked.

"Sleep is … elusive. I will sit here awhile, think on the day's events and help myself to your excellent wine," and he gestured towards Aramis with the goblet, as if giving a toast.

"Then if you don't mind, I shall sit a little longer and drink also."

"I am not good company tonight – it is ever my excuse these days."

"You do not need to explain yourself, brother, but I would like to stay. We do not need to talk," Aramis assured him. There was a note of defiance in his voice that warned Athos that he would not be left alone.

Later, when they had removed themselves to comfortable chairs either side of the ornate fireplace and had opened another bottle that stood within easy reach on an occasional table set between them, Aramis spoke.

"Desmarais _will_ be punished for his crimes; there is no way that he can be spared. The atmosphere in the courtroom was compelling. No-one had any sympathy for him and by the time Benoit has testified against him in the morning and the Spanish statements have been read out, there is nothing that he can say in his defence."

Athos picked up the wine bottle, topped up the contents of his goblet and that of his friend.

"I thought you were not going to talk," he reminded him, knowing only too well that Aramis could not sustain silence for long. How had he managed for four years at Douai? Although it was not a silent order, irrelevant chatter would have been discouraged and Aramis had always been fond of his own voice and story-telling. He would never have been able to resist that one temptation – perhaps that was why he found such a willing audience in the orphans.

There was the familiar gesture of the hand on his heart as Aramis nodded. "Then I shall talk no more, I promise."

IV

Aramis kept his promise.

The grey light of morning found the pair of them slumped in alcohol-fuelled sleep in the same chairs, never having had the chance to vacate them and seek their beds. They came awake slowly, blinking owlishly as one servant opened the shutters to welcome the day and two more cleared the detritus of the previous evening – Aramis had dismissed them – before setting out the food to break their fast.

On realising the time, there was a frantic scramble as they hurriedly freshened up and changed before eating. Once again, they had not drunk too much but, somehow, the pair of them managed to look worse than they had the day before. Heads were woolly on only four hours' sleep but there was a reassuring sign when Athos fell to eating what had been provided. There was a point he must reach when hunger became too much and clouded his thoughts, dulling his ability to function properly and Aramis was relieved that he did not have to force his friend to eat. The day promised to be difficult enough as it was.

"How does Constance?" Aramis whispered as the court reconvened.

"She fares well – too well," d'Artagnan complained. "She and Brujon set to in my absence and cleaned our whole living quarters yesterday."

"I thought she's already done that," Porthos frowned.

"She had," d'Artagnan enlightened him, "but then she decided it wasn't good enough and had to be done again." He sighed. "I hope this baby comes soon; I don't think my nerves can take much more."

When it came to it, Desmarais lacked any comprehensible defence. His bluster and lies were transparent. The guilty verdict was a foregone conclusion and the man embarrassingly collapsed in an undignified heap when the death sentence was declared before noon, to be carried out the next afternoon.

V

The execution was to be held in a small courtyard away from prying eyes at three o'clock and, thirty minutes beforehand, Athos was in position on a balcony directly in front of the platform where Desmarais was to be beheaded. He was adamant that his would be the last face that the Baron saw in this life.

"How has he been?" d'Artagnan asked as he, Porthos and Aramis stood in the chamber that led onto the balcony. They all looked in the direction of their friend.

"Outwardly composed; you know what he's like," Aramis answered.

"Nothin' changed there then," Porthos murmured, hoping that his whisper would not reach to the balcony.

They had all spent the previous evening much as they had done the one before so neither Porthos nor d'Artagnan had known Athos' mood but they could guess the difficulties Aramis had faced when the two of them had arrived to see justice carried out.

"Inwardly? I dread to think. He has eaten nothing at all since yesterday morning. I watered his wine, fearful that it would affect him more rapidly but he remained sober," explained Aramis.

"Today's too important to 'im. 'E needs to see it through an' for that 'e needs a clear 'ead," Porthos reckoned.

"But it looks like neither of you slept again," d'Artagnan pointed out.

"I managed a little but that was through necessity rather than design," Aramis admitted. "I doubt if he closed his eyes at all. Between the pacing and the brooding silence, he had no place for rest."

"He said nothing?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Only to complain repeatedly that execution should have been done at dawn this morning."

"'E doesn't suspect that you 'ad words with the judge then?" Porthos wondered.

"I hope not. The judge was surprised at first that the First Minister should be making such a request but then I explained that we feared for Athos' health in light of what had happened; that an early execution might give him the excuse to be on the road before the day's end when we wanted him to stay to look after him. The judge, subsequently, was very accommodating."

"That gives us until tomorrow mornin' at least to convince 'im to stay," Porthos hoped.

"I doubt it," Aramis said bleakly. "Given the past few nights, I would not put anything past him. I suspect he will wait until I have fallen asleep and then he will go."

"Without sayin' goodbye?"

"Definitely. He is torn between staying and going but thinks only of an immediate future resuming his role as intelligencer. He does not want us to stop him and I for one, gentlemen, know that I cannot stay awake a further night watching him," Aramis warned.

"Then we need to be there to 'elp," Porthos declared but, as he saw the anxiety cloud d'Artagnan's features, he amended his words. "I shall be there to 'elp. Our Captain here will be off keepin' an eye on 'is missus."

"I will stay for a while," d'Artagnan offered, "but I am sure it will be unnecessary for I have a proposition for him. Excuse me, gentlemen. I would like a moment alone with Athos."

"I don't think …" Aramis began but d'Artagnan had gone. "That this is the right time," he finished lamely.

"Will any time be the right one?" Porthos wanted to know.

"I doubt it. Has he told you his idea?"

"No, but I suspect we won't 'ave long to wait to find out."

D'Artagnan stopped on the balcony close to his friend, their shoulders almost touching as they looked out at the place where a man was shortly to meet his end.

"Have you yet decided what you will do after this is over?" d'Artagnan asked quietly.

"Leave Paris and head north to meet with my informants. We need to shore up the gaps in our intelligence that allow the likes of Desmarais to carry out their treachery."

D'Artagnan turned to face him. "You don't have to go, you know. We all want you to stay. You don't have to go back to the life of a spy."

"And what do you propose I do instead?" Athos was devoid of expression.

"Plenty with the skills you possess."

"I could sell my sword, you mean, to the highest bidder."

"Not at all," d'Artagnan objected, his face flushed at the memory that that was exactly what they thought he had done. "But your sword skills could be important."

Athos eyed him with unveiled suspicion.

D'Artagnan hurried on with his explanation. "When you left the garrison, Sylvie said you were going on a sabbatical, a mission. Of course, we understood that to mean awaiting the birth of Raoul. We weren't to know you had alternative employment at that time but you said you would return."

"If I recall, I said no such thing. You said we would speak further about things and I said I did not doubt it."

D'Artagnan looked at him in amazement. "Your capacity to remember the smallest thing is frightening."

"Which is why I am the intelligencer."

"Yes but don't you see, you're back and we are now discussing things. I know what brought you back is not good but we can turn it to good, can't we?"

Athos waited patiently and the young man rushed on.

"You will be recommissioned, come back to the garrison."

"And be a musketeer again?"

"Yes, but not an ordinary one. We can thrash out the finer points of what that would involve. Of course I am not suggesting that you re-join the lower ranks; you were once the Captain."

"Exactly, and a regiment cannot have two Captains."

"Which is why we create a new, special role, especially for you. You did so much for the regiment, led us for so long –"

"Nearly every man I led is dead," Athos interrupted.

"But your name is known; you are a legend to the men who make up the regiment now," d'Artagnan as sounding a little desperate now. "I need your advice and guidance."

"No you don't, you have survived very well without me for the past three years. I repeat, there is no place for two captains," Athos persisted. "You would always feel that I am watching you, judging you, comparing how you do things with what I would have done and you would hate that and then hate me."

"Never!" d'Artagnan exclaimed. "I just need to have you near. I have missed you so much. Perhaps my offer has been clumsy, ill-thought out but I am sure we can work something out. I have need of a sword-master for the men. At least stay for a while and let me make use of your skills in that way."

He fell silent, lost for words and the two men who were such good friends for so many years stared intently at each other.

Suddenly, Athos smiled. It was not forced but genuine, and his face really lit up for what seemed to be the first time since his return, a smile that was full of love and not tinged with sadness at a dark memory and d'Artagnan's heart lifted.

Athos reached out a hand and cupped the back of the younger man's neck. "I thank you, my friend; you make me a very generous and heartfelt offer."

He pulled d'Artagnan to him and wrapped his arms around him in a warm embrace. He felt the younger man relax and then spoke again.

"You mean well and I love you for it but I can never go back. My answer is no."


	46. Chapter 46

_**Dear all, thank you all for waiting patiently. The play is over – it went well – and as last week was half term, I was able to go home to family and sleep a lot! This chapter just grew and grew so I have chopped it again so that you might at least have something to read. I know feelings were mixed about Athos turning down d'Artagnan's generous offer and that is where we pick things up …**_

 _ **Apologies for any errors that may have slipped through ...**_

CHAPTER 46

I

At Athos' announcement, d'Artagnan pulled away from his embrace and studied his face, his own a very picture of bemusement and disappointment.

"Believe me when I say that I am sorry that I cannot give you the answer that you want to hear but, in time, you will come to see that I am right," Athos said softly. D'Artagnan could only nod his acquiescence, unable to trust his voice at that moment.

"That doesn't look as if it went well," Porthos muttered to Aramis as they stood watching the body language of the pair and seeing that it had undergone an abrupt change.

"Perhaps we should join them," the Minister suggested, hoping to avoid any further problems; the situation was tense enough as it was and he felt an impromptu flash of anger that d'Artagnan had proposed something of which they knew nothing and potentially put Athos under additional, unnecessary pressure.

His temper abated just as rapidly. How could he berate the musketeer Captain when he had done what any one of them was keen to do? They all wanted – no, needed – Athos to remain in Paris and even though he could not see it himself right now, he needed to stay with them too.

D'Artagnan shot them a half-hearted smile but his regret was plain. To encourage and comfort him, Aramis patted him on the shoulder and moved to take up a position flanking Athos.

And so they stood, brothers to the last, Tréville's _Inseparables_ , united in a far deeper way than either geographic location or altered responsibility could divide. Shoulder to shoulder, they were immutable, all for one, and so it was that the three were there for the one. Even in their line up on the balcony – d'Artagnan, Athos, Aramis and Porthos – their support and protection were obvious; Athos was there in their midst. He was not about to face this alone.

If he knew what they were about, he gave no outward show demonstrating that. His eyes were fixed on the place of execution, his recent rejection of d'Artagnan's offer already in the recesses of his mind as he concentrated upon seeing Desmarais brought to justice.

A heavy door opened out of sight below them; raised voices and a sudden flurry amongst the guards in the courtyard signalled the emergence of the execution party, an incongruous term for what was about to happen for no-one was in the mood for celebration. They came into view and made for the steps that would be used to mount the platform. A priest led the way, closely followed by the condemned man being supported by two guards. Bringing up the rear was the executioner himself, wielding the weapon that would herald the Baron's demise. It shone in the afternoon sunlight, a mockery for what was about to happen. Athos gripped the balustrade in front of him, his knuckles whitening.

Desmarais was a dramatically changed man; that was clear for all to see. The verdict and sentence had drained him of any arrogance and he was a shell of his former self. The man was terrified, unable to walk unaided and only kept on his feet by the two, stony-faced men that held him upright. It was in sad, sharp contrast to the quartet on the balcony as they closed ranks even further, shoulders firmly touching, backs straight and heads held high.

He was almost dragged up the steps and onto the platform. He struggled weakly against his guards as they forced him to his knees and he began to weep uncontrollably, the sound of his sobs reaching to where the friends stood watching and waiting.

Porthos leaned forward slightly to see around Aramis and gauge Athos' reaction at the sight of the Baron and the state he was in. The former Comte's face was a mask, his feelings carefully concealed.

He, too, had once stood as a condemned man, falsely accused of heinous crimes and found guilty. Then he had stood before a firing squad, a gamut of emotions fighting for supremacy. In his own mind, he did not deserve to live, welcomed death even, appreciating the irony of perishing in a miscarriage of justice, but felt fear nonetheless at what he perceived as being his final moments.

Now, he watched the Baron, his eyes narrowing in contempt at the man's behaviour. The executioner was going to be hard-pressed to fulfil his task if Desmarais could not control himself and come to his senses; he was a pitiful sight and Athos had to steel himself as he felt himself momentarily weaken when confronted by the man's terror. Then he recalled why they were there in the first place – Desmarais had given the order that had ultimately led to the horrific deaths of Sylvie and Raoul. This was the justice which he had sought, and he would not – could not – feel sorry for the man.

The two guards, tired of the whimpering nobleman, nodded to each other, grabbed an arm each and pulled Desmarais up from where he crouched on the platform. The priest continued to intone a prayer and Athos could see the Baron's lips moving, although he could not hear the words. Forced upright, it was natural for Desmarais to cast a glance upwards where he could not fail to see the _Inseparables_ gathered, with Athos in their midst. Cold, green eyes held the attention of terrified brown ones as the two men stared at each other, neither wanting to be the first to look away.

It was an ignominious end for anyone, not least a nobleman, but then he had not been either noble or honourable in life with what he had been doing.

It was the distraction that the executioner needed as Desmarais froze and Athos' wish was granted; his was the last face that Desmarais saw in life. The executioner's blade was sharp, accurate and effective and, as Desmarais' headless corpse toppled sideways in a macabre slow motion, Athos leaned forward as if to imprint the scene in his mind so that he would never be able to forget it. If it were possible, his grip tightened even further on the balustrade before him and any colour drained from his face.

"It is finished," he whispered, more to himself than for the benefit of anyone else.

Aramis heard him, though, and felt a chill run down his spine. He took no offense from the Biblical quotation, knowing that, for Athos, so much had been concluded with Desmarais' death. Justice had been served for all the tenants who had been misused and desperate when they struggled to meet the increased tax demands.

More than that, appropriate punishment had been exacted for Sylvie and Raoul. It could never bring them back, never restore to them the lives that had been cruelly torn from them and would never give the innocent child the opportunity to grow and realise his potential, but it might enable them to rest in peace. Athos' quest for revenge was over and what had consumed him totally since he first learned of their deaths was no more. The need that had driven him relentlessly, obsessively, had ceased to exist. What would he do now? How would he move on from this?

Aramis watched him carefully for several minutes and when it appeared that he had no intention of moving, the Minister took his arm and pulled gently, surprised that there was not more resistance.

"Come, my friend," he urged softly. "There is no reason for you to stay any longer. Let us leave this place," and so saying, he led Athos from the balcony, back inside as d'Artagnan and Porthos followed.

II

At the palace, Aramis poured several generous measures of brandy and distributed them. When he passed one to Athos, he discreetly noted but ignored the clear trembling of his friend's hand. Athos downed it in one and held out the empty glass for a refill, nodding his thanks when Aramis obliged. The four men collapsed into chairs, not even tasting the alcohol that passed their lips and conversation was at a minimum. It was enough that they were together.

The nights of little sleep and the emotional stress of the afternoon began to take their toll and it was as he finished the fourth brandy that Athos' head began to nod, and his gritty, sleep-deprived eyes grew too heavy for him to keep open. When his chin sank to his chest and the hand holding the empty glass drooped over the side of the chair, d'Artagnan carefully prised the vessel from his fingers and set it on the table.

The three men rose and left the room with light-footed ease. When the door had been quietly closed behind them, they spoke in soft voices, confirming that they would reconvene at seven for dinner. Aramis yawned.

"You need some rest yourself," d'Artagnan observed.

"What I need is some time to do some work."

"How effective would you be?" Porthos insisted. "You'd do better getting some sleep like him," and he inclined his head towards the door of the room where their friend slept on.

Aramis hesitated.

"You really think 'e would up an' disappear without so much as a 'by your leave'?"

"I never thought I would have to admit this, but I am not totally sure what Athos is capable of doing right now," Aramis said wearily.

"Let me at least have time to check on Constance and freshen up, and then I will come back," d'Artagnan offered. "I have enough paperwork that I can bring to keep me occupied between then and dinner so I shall sit with him whilst you get some well-earned rest yourself."

"I can't say that the offer is not appreciated." Aramis could not recall a time when he felt so tired; the feeling even seemed to permeate his bones so that he could not identify a part of him that did not ache with exhaustion.

"That's settled then," and d'Artagnan clapped him on the shoulder. "I will be back as soon as I can."

The trio parted company, each with their own tasks to fulfil for Porthos had to impart the latest news to Elodie.

D'Artagnan returned in little over an hour and slipped into the reception room where Athos had fallen asleep. He was still in the same position and the Captain could not help but wonder if he would awaken with a stiff neck. Aramis was in a nearby chair, documents in his hand but sending for them had been pointless for his head nodded and he jerked awake, his eyes immediately on the sleeping form as if he feared that Athos would no longer be there.

He did not need any persuading to relax when d'Artagnan made himself comfortable and began to work. Within a few short minutes, d'Artagnan was smiling to himself when he realised that the only sounds to be heard in the room was the scratch of his quill on paper, Athos' regular breathing and Aramis' gentle snores.

III

There was an underlying and unexpected tension in the meal when they all came together again.

D'Artagnan could not dispense with an inexplicable feeling for Constance had seemed very odd when he returned to their quarters. She seemed imbued with an unnatural energy and was issuing a string of orders to Brujon about remaining tasks. The Captain had walked in just as the young man dared to raise an objection and Constance, without losing her temper, had swiftly put him in his place and made sure he continued working.

Aramis had been forced to waken Athos in time for dinner but the man was clearly still exhausted, lost in his own thoughts, again not eating much and speaking little.

Porthos' thoughts were on Elodie and the fact that he would soon be returning to the front, if only for a restricted period. He had to confess that he had thoroughly enjoyed being back in Paris, the city where he had grown up, experienced so any things and become a musketeer. If truth be told, although he loved being with his wife and adopted daughter – lively little character that she was – he had thoroughly enjoyed riding as a foursome again but it was not quite like the old days.

The meal was concluded and they were trying to speak of lighter things, all sensing the strain and none daring to be the first to broach the subject of Athos' intentions. Even as the three launched into tales of past antics, trying to outdo each other in the absurdity of their recollections, he could not be drawn into the conversation but watched them carefully, his eyes filled with a deep sadness that was beyond calculation.

Eventually, he muttered a plea to be excused briefly and slipped away from the table. He had been drinking far more than he had been eating and it was a natural assumption on the part of the others that he had gone to relieve himself.

They took advantage of his absence for a hurriedly whispered consultation.

"He's not good, is he?" Porthos noted.

Aramis looked downcast. "I just don't know how to even begin to help him through this. I know we've all declared that we will be here for him but what do we actually do?"

"Let 'im know he's not alone, even though that's all he thinks he is right now; when 'e wants to talk, we'll be 'ere to listen." Porthos caught sight of Aramis' eyebrow raised in disbelief and corrected himself. "I know, 'e never 'as talked willingly so why should 'e start now? But I reckon 'e 'as. He's started openin' up to you, Aramis, an' maybe he'll do so again. Just give 'im time."

"I know we think time might not be what we have but he's hit rock bottom before," d'Artagnan strove to sound optimistic. "He'll climb back again. I know we don't think he's very strong at the moment but we've seen him have an inner strength that would defy most men. All we need to do is persuade him to stay." He briefly outlined the proposal he had made to the grieving man.

"I admit it wasn't probably the right time or the right way to go about it, but I had to do something. He has to have something to focus on now that Desmarais is dead; he has to have plans for the future," d'Artagnan went on.

"Maybe now's good enough for you to suggest the position of spy master," Porthos said, turning to Aramis.

"Maybe but, like d'Artagnan, I haven't really thought about the practicalities of such a notion yet and he is bound to question my motives too. Is there anything you can think of to occupy him?"

Porthos sighed. "I'm a general at the front, readin' papers an' givin' orders. If it wasn't right for 'im to serve under d'Artagnan, he's not goin' to want to serve under me. Besides, I don't think bein' at the front is a good place for him right now. If we thought 'e 'ad a death wish back in the early days of Milady, I dread to think what's goin' on in 'is mind right now. Maybe puttin' him in front of people willingly shootin' at him is not a good idea."

The three of them instinctively looked to the closed door through which their friend had disappeared a little earlier.

"He's been gone a long time," d'Artagnan voiced what they were all thinking.

"'E's 'ad a lot to drink," Porthos laughed but even to his ears it sounded forced.

Aramis was on his feet, his chair toppling over behind him with a crash.

D'Artagnan rose with him. "You don't think …." He dared not finish.

Before either he or Porthos could react, Aramis was running for the door shouting as he went. "Athos? Athos, where are you? Answer me! Athos?"


	47. Chapter 47

_**Thank you to all the wonderful comments on the last chapter and to all who read it.**_

 _ **Here is the penultimate chapter and I wait with baited breath to hear what you think! This has been in my head for SO long and I kept changing bits but now I have to let it go! If there are any errors here, I apologise and hope that they will not detract from the content.**_

CHAPTER 47

Heading straight for the room that he now easily thought of as belonging to Athos, Aramis could not suppress his relieved sigh when he saw, through the partially open door, that Athos was there, back to him, his meagre belongings strewn across the bed.

"Packing again?" Aramis asked softly but, even so, he saw the man start and swiftly swipe at his cheek before he turned and slumped onto the bed, head bowed and all energy gone as he sat there in miserable silence.

Gaining courage to enter the room fully, Aramis let the door close behind him as he approached his friend.

"Were you intending to slip away?" He did not want a confrontation but he had to know one way of the other.

Athos shook his head, unable to voice his words. His eyes …. Oh, his eyes! Aramis could not find the words to express the conflicting emotions that he saw there and a shocked gasp escaped him.

He had seen Athos brought low emotionally by Milady, not that he knew she was the reason for his self-destructive nature when he joined the Musketeers. It had been five years before Aramis knew of her existence and what she had done in Athos' past life as the Comte de la Fère. He had seen the toll it had taken on his friend when she had become the King's mistress and flaunted her favoured role before Athos and the Queen.

Throughout, though, both he and Porthos – and later d'Artagnan – had stood by him, protected him through his terrible bouts of drinking, self-doubt and recrimination; had seen him struggle with overwhelming melancholy and striven to convince him of his worthiness. They could all see that he was a man of honour, of duty and uncompromising loyalty, for he had willingly given it to Tréville and them as they had gradually worn him down and won his trust.

Now, though, the deaths of the woman to whom he had so tentatively given his love and his child were something else entirely. As one man had been executed, it was as if his own will to live had simultaneously expired. He was drained, deflated, somehow made smaller and horribly more vulnerable. Those green eyes that could be so cold, calculating, angry and that had cowed many a musketeer recruit let alone an enemy were haunted now.

If eyes were the windows to the soul, then Aramis did not like what he could now see. It was a despair and grief so tangible that, if he could, Aramis wanted nothing more than to reach in and tear it from his friend's heart, if that was where it dwelt, and fling it as far away from Athos as he could.

Aramis looked and saw and was afraid!

He feared for his friend's very existence, his life. It never occurred to him that Athos might act violently against himself, that by his own hand he might put an end to the suffering and torment he was experiencing. No, it was more the fear that with nothing apparently left to spur him on, he might give up and die of a broken heart. Although the romantic Aramis had been unlucky in love on more than one occasion and vowed that he would never love again, he had never envisaged expiring from such extreme disappointment. He had never thought it possible of anyone, had even pooh-poohed the idea when declared by love-lorn colleagues but now, as he looked at Athos, he began to wonder if the phenomena were actually a reality.

"Please tell me you are not thinking of leaving tonight," he tried again, and coughed as if to clear his throat when his cracked voice threatened to betray him.

"No, not tonight. I find I am inexplicably weary so, if you don't mind, I shall depart in the morning." Athos sounded strangely formal, the consonants clipped. "For some reason best known to himself, d'Artagnan has gifted Têtu to me; he is a singularly bad-tempered beast but he appears to be mellowing somewhat. D'Artagnan does seem to be under the impression that we are well-suited to each other, that we have somehow bonded. I shall accept his gift as I have need of a mount. I expect my other horse to have been sold by the inn keeper to cover the cost of stabling and food."

It was the most Aramis had heard him utter at one time since they had returned to Paris and whilst it was reassuring to think he could still converse, the subject matter was inconsequential. Aramis gestured to the bed in a request to be allowed to sit and awaited the invitation. Athos nodded and they sat beside each other, a little distance between them.

After a pause, Aramis reached into a pocket inside his doublet and removed a small leather purse.

"This is yours. We found it on you when you first collapsed with fever; you will be needing it." He took Athos' nearest hand and laid the bag in his palm.

At first, Athos stared at it as if he had never seen it before. "I am pleased to see it for I thought it had been stolen." He pressed it back towards Aramis. "You keep it."

Aramis felt sick as he immediately wondered why Athos thought he no longer had any use for it. "There is too much here, and you will need it as you head north, at least until your next wage from the crown and the sale of your land. You seemed intent on returning to your role of intelligencer," Aramis tried to focus Athos on his previous plans. "Why do you not leave your packing until the morning? It will not take you long."

He made the comment in all innocence and was therefore unprepared for the bitter response.

"It does not take long when there is very little to begin with. It is not much to show for nearly forty years of life, especially when you consider what I did have in my privileged upbringing."

"You twist my words," Aramis said in reproof. "You know that is not what I meant."

Athos sighed. "Forgive me. That was uncalled for on my part."

"Forgiven," Aramis smiled. "Why don't you come back to the table? Have another drink?"

Now Athos shook his head. "I only dampen the mood of you all. I do not feel up to celebrating the death of a man."

It was Aramis' turn to bristle. "Is that what you think we are doing? Celebrating Desmarais' execution? If I didn't know you better, I would have every right to feel insulted! Admittedly we are giving thanks, but it is because the situation has reached a solution, that there has been obvious justice meted out. Desmarais made his own choices and he lived to regret it. Now that things are concluded, it is nice to have just the four of us together for supper – as we used to do."

Athos was distractedly picking at a spur of skin at the side of a thumbnail and when he next spoke, his voice was close to breaking. "I could not celebrate even if I wanted to. I thought his death, his punishment would bring some kind of closure to events, that I would feel something. Jubilation? Satisfaction at least? Instead there is nothing. Right now, all I feel is a numbness spreading through me."

Aramis slid a little closer. "You have had a traumatic time since you learned of Sylvie and Raoul's deaths, building to the trial and today's punishment; it has all been very emotional so it is understandable that you should feel numb at present. It may be several more days before you have any sort of reaction. That is a justifiable reason for you not to leave right now, either tonight or tomorrow morning. It is too soon and we would be beside ourselves with worry. I beg you, if not for yourself, then please stay a while for us. We need to know that you are recovered from all this and we can only do that when we can see the progress in you for ourselves. We could not cope with waiting for spasmodic correspondence from you. Besides," and here Aramis allowed himself a wry grin, "how could we believe you when you write that you are fine? We know you well, my friend, and how much you try to withhold from us."

"But I need to work."

Aramis tried to see the statement in a positive light but then began to question its veracity. "To distract yourself? What you need, Athos, is to face what has happened and not run away." When Athos made to object, Aramis cut him off. "Who says you need to work right now? I am certainly not expecting you to be out immediately with your intelligencers. You have just completed an important task in bringing a traitor to justice and need respite. Your sleeping and eating have been far too erratic of late. The last thing we want is for you to leave and then be ill, alone and miles from us. I judge you as being far from ready to go. It is not as if you have to; you can stay in the palace within these rooms for as long as you want."

"I do not seek your charity."

"And I am not offering it," Aramis retorted. "It is not charity … but brotherhood. I am hurt. Can't you settle for being my guest? Stop being on the defensive; take time and make plans properly. There is no pressure; you can stay for as long as you like. Surely our friendship over the years is reason enough for that?"

They fell silent again as Athos seemed to consider what Aramis was saying.

"D'Artagnan made me a job offer," he said eventually.

"I know."

"I turned him down."

"I know that too."

Athos at last lifted his head, agony etched in his features. "Do you wonder why? If I made the right decision?"

Aramis thought for a moment before answering. He could think of very few times in his life when his words had ever been so important.

"Whilst I do not think that now is the appropriate time for you to be making any major decisions, I cannot help but believe that you _are_ correct in this one. What we had, what we were as musketeers is no more. It all changed when we had to fight against Rochefort and when war was declared against Spain. As much as it pains me to say it, and however much I miss those mad days when we had no responsibility except to each other and serving Tréville and the King, we cannot go back to those times; none of us can. We have moved on, shaped by our experiences. But we are still brothers and always will be – that will never change. What we do now and in the future is what matters and what will continue to define us.

"If you went to work with d'Artagnan, the danger is that you would come to resent each other. It is only natural that he would reach a point when he would think you were constantly watching him to find him lacking, to see if he would fail, and you would be thinking that he had created you a role from nothing. _That_ is what you would regard as charity and the danger is that you would come to hate him for it."

Green eyes swam with unshed tears. "That is exactly what I was thinking."

"I know you well, brother," Aramis reminded him again with as warm a smile as he could muster.

Athos blinked rapidly, his next question nothing more than a breathy whisper so that Aramis had to lean in to hear him properly.

"What do I do now? I can't begin again. Not again."

Aramis slid an arm comfortingly around his friend's shoulders, his own heart beating rapidly at the sound of such confessed pain. "Yes, you can; just as you have always done."

"Not this time." There was a catch in Athos' voice and Aramis realised that he was close to breaking, that the walls he had constructed so many years ago were in imminent danger of collapsing around him.

"You cannot contemplate doing that right now. You have to allow yourself space and time to heal; you cannot be expected to think straight."

A single tear tracked down Athos' cheek and he gave a long, low groan of abject agony. Aramis had never heard him make such a noise before and he wanted nothing more than to relieve his brother of the burden of such self-torture.

But this was only the beginning of Athos' revealing his innermost troubles. His eyes fixed on a spot on the floor as he falteringly began to list what he perceived as his shortcomings.

"All my life has been about duty: as eldest son and heir, older brother, Comte, husband, lover, soldier, Captain, father. It is an impressive list, yet I have failed each step of the way in every single role. All those people that I have let down!"

He shuddered on a half-suppressed sob and despite Aramis' attempts to disagree, Athos pulled back to look at him, desperately seeking answers. "Where was I when they needed me? I gave up the family title and name. Centuries of hard work, effort and pride by my ancestors, by my father, and I just let it go. It was my decision to end it because …. I failed to protect my brother from the woman who killed him, my wife. I was responsible for bringing her into our home, blinded by my love for her. Did I not know my own brother when we grew up together? Yet if she was telling me the truth about Thomas attacking her, then I failed her too. After all this time, I still do not know who or what to believe!"

The words began to tumble from him in a rushed monotone.

"I failed all the men who died under my command and Tréville when he was faced by Grimaud and his men. Where was I when he needed me? When he was cut down? Then when Sylvie and Raoul died, I was not there. In the last, I was doing my duty to France – the one duty I managed to get right from time to time."

"You are a man of honour who has always given of his best, striven to do what is right. You cannot be held accountable for those who are evil and intent upon wrongdoing; you must allow them to take much of that fault," Aramis tried to convince him. "Head over heart has ever been your teaching. A lot of the time it's fine; it's what has kept you alive and I've watched you train d'Artagnan in the same manner, telling him over and over again, but in here," and he laid his free hand on Athos' chest, "is a heart full of love. It is a caring, noble heart that tries to take far too much upon itself. In your head," and he moved his hand to tap Athos' temple gently with a forefinger, "is the logic, the reason that has led you astray, allowing you to find all the evidence for blaming yourself for all of life's ills. It is not always your cross to bear." His religious analogy was deliberate and he was not about to apologise for it.

By now, Athos was distracted beyond reason and wringing his hands in his lap so that Aramis feared his noble mind was fracturing along with his noble spirit.

The subject matter inexplicably turned full circle and Athos focused once more on what he saw as his necessity to depart. "I have to go. Don't you see? I can leave now knowing you and the others have your lives, have the happiness you deserve. If I remain, I will only bring trouble upon you. I could not live with myself if I were responsible for anything happening to you or your loved ones. Tragedy plagues me; it has taken from me many I have loved and held dear. I could not bear it if …." His voice trailed off and, in his desperation, he could no longer maintain eye contact.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Aramis remonstrated. "Do not think it! You believe you bring some sort of curse? How can you even suggest such a thing? Porthos will be returning to the front but you won't; you cannot protect him! It is impossible. D'Artagnan is a leader of men. You cannot defend him either, especially as you have now turned down a position that would have put you by his side! What dangers do I face within the palace from which the musketeers could not protect me? Your argument does not work. Do not use it as an excuse."

He cupped Athos' cheek gently with his hand, turning his head towards him to regain his full attention. He must listen to what Aramis said next; listen _and_ hear. "If you love us so much, know that we love you too; we have a need for you and want you to be with us, especially now. Let us have the privilege of looking after you a little, of showing you a glimpse of the love and esteem we have for you, that you are not going through this alone."

Athos took a great shuddering intake of breath as Aramis pulled him close and continued.

"Do you still consider yourself so unworthy? It is a strange kind of inverted pride if you consider yourself beyond forgiveness. You have been forgiven so many times over for things that you have done or have had to do, things often beyond your control. God has forgiven you so why can't you forgive yourself?"

Athos' breathing became more ragged as he struggled to contain his warring emotions.

"There is something else I need to return to you."

Aramis released Athos just long enough to retrieve a small, black velvet pouch from the same inner pocket and tipped its contents into his friend's lap. It was the time piece that Athos had left on Tréville's tomb.

Athos stared at it. "I cannot take it back. I do not deserve it."

Aramis did not know whether to be angry that his words had had little impact or to weep in the face of the man's lack of self-worth. "Have you not been listening to a word I say? That precious man, whom we all loved and revered, gave you this. We were all close to him but you most of all, hence this gift. He wanted you to have it and the message implicit within it. He saw something in you that you have resolutely refused to see in yourself, but he never gave up on you. By not taking it again, are you saying that he totally misunderstood you all those years?"

The words found their mark for Athos had never thought of things that way. The onslaught of what Aramis had relentlessly been saying proved too much for him and he finally began to crumple.

Wrapping both arms around him, Aramis held him tightly. "There is so much going on in your head at present. That's why you must stay with no pressure from anyone. You take one step at a time, no matter how small. First, though, you have to allow yourself to grieve properly for Sylvie and Raoul and, I suspect, Tréville and Thomas."

The man he held was fighting hard not to cry, hardly daring to breathe.

Intensifying his embrace, Aramis bent so that his cheek rested on the tousled head and whispered, "It's acceptable to grieve, to weep. It is not a sign of weakness. Your heart is sorely charged. You don't have to fight anymore, Athos. Let it go. There is no-one to judge you. I certainly won't – not with the sins I have borne on my head and in my heart. That one night nine years ago changed everything for all time and for all of us, but that is not for discussion now. The important person here is you. It's only me here with you. You don't have to fight, my friend. You can let go."

As Aramis continued to whisper this, the final stones in the wall came tumbling down. Unable to hold back the tears any longer, Athos finally succumbed to his pain and broke down into noisy, gut-wrenching, desperate sobs. Collapsing against Aramis, his fingers twisted in the luxurious shirt and clung to him as if his very life depended upon it.

The tears fell and not just for Sylvie and Raoul. Stunned by the outpouring of such violent emotion, Aramis realised that at least fifteen years of suppressed pain was finding release and surfacing.

In the adjacent room, Porthos and d'Artagnan remained at the table, visibly shaken by the agonised grief they could hear. D'Artagnan was wracking his brains to think of any time when he had known Athos shed tears and could only think of one instance. It was after the battle at the maison forte when they had rescued the kidnapped Tréville.* Many musketeers had resigned their commission, including the _Inseparables,_ as they refused to serve under the traitorous Delacroix. Fighting alongside Athos against a combined force of their own brothers and the Red Guard, some good men had lost their lives and Athos had wept at their deaths, but he had taken himself apart from the others when the emotions had overwhelmed him and even Tréville had afforded him some privacy by leaving him alone.

The men nervously drank their wine as the sound of the unnerving sobbing did not abate and, if anything, became more fraught and desolate. They could not even find it within themselves to comfort each other.

Suddenly another door opened to admit a servant closely followed by Coury, a musketeer from the garrison. D'Artagnan rose to his feet at the unexpected arrival and the man's worried expression.

"Captain, you need to come back now. Madame d'Artagnan is … she needs you, Sir. The midwife has been summoned."

Constance was in labour. His mouth open, d'Artagnan looked first at Porthos, then at the door leading to Athos and Aramis, and then back to Porthos, who stood as well and dropped heavy hands onto the slighter man's shoulders. He had seen and understood the hesitation.

"Now you listen to me. There's no choice 'ere. You 'ave to go to Constance, you understand? Athos'd never forgive you for stayin' 'ere when you're needed elsewhere for somethin' as important as the birth of your child. D'you want to add to the guilt he's carryin', knowin' it was because of him you'd stayed? You get yourself out of here and send us some good news as soon as you 'ave it. Athos'll be okay, Aramis is with him. You go an' take all our love to that beautiful wife of yours. You'll all be in our thoughts."

D'Artagnan did not know whether to be excited or frightened and he was still torn about leaving Athos but he knew Porthos was right. Unable to utter a word, he grabbed the big man by the hand, shook it briefly in a tight grip, gave a tentative little laugh and ran – literally.

Porthos watched him go, a big grin on his own face but as soon as one door closed on the anxious Captain, the smile faded and Porthos moved to the other door. He rested his hand upon it, this man-made barrier between him and his stricken brother and he, too, hesitated, unsure whether or not to enter.

The pull of brotherhood proved too much; the three remaining men had been through so much together over the years and they needed to be together to see Athos through this tragedy as well.

Opening the door slowly, quietly, he peered into the room and saw the pair sitting on the bed. Athos sobbed wretchedly as Aramis rocked him in a tight embrace, tears streaming down his own face. Porthos felt himself well up for what man could listen to such agony and not be moved?

Aramis had either heard him enter or sensed his presence for he suddenly looked directly at him. Porthos arched an eyebrow questioningly, wondering if he were disturbing them. In answer, Aramis held out a hand, gesturing him to approach. In a few swift strides, he moved to sit on the bed on the other side of Athos, took Aramis' proffered hand and extended his other long arm to draw them both to him as he gave way to his own tears.

Aramis glanced at the door and back to Porthos. "D'Artagnan?" he mouthed over the dark head held to his chest.

"Baby's comin'," was the simple response and Aramis nodded in understanding.

So they sat there, three friends of many years' standing; Athos sandwiched between them, loved, enfolded and protected. Just their presence and touch spoke volumes to him in moments of awareness. They were seeing him at his worst, his most vulnerable and broken and, God willing, they would never witness it again. He had had his reasons for remaining so stoic, so distant over the years for he had not trusted himself. His childhood had been spent moulding him into a man before his time, encouraging him to stand strong and discouraging him from displaying any emotion that might be deemed weak. He feared giving into those emotions, no matter how desperately he wanted to for perhaps, more than anything else, he feared losing control – which was exactly what was happening now. The much-needed venting of years of pent-up sorrow had finally found release, resulting in a violent maelstrom.

Aramis continued to rock the trembling man as several thoughts simultaneously came to mind. Their brotherhood was still complete and would continue to survive; it had stood the test of time and separation. D'Artagnan might be absent physically at this moment but there was a very definite, joyous reason for that and shortly, they would all rejoice with him. Aramis was certain of that and he knew that there would come a time when Athos could also celebrate the new arrival with them. It was not in the man's nature to begrudge anyone else their happiness.

All was clear. As one new life was making its entrance into the world, all the pain of past times was to be laid to rest once and for all for another. There was a sense of optimism.

Athos would have a new beginning even if he was unwilling to believe it now; he would find the strength within himself to begin anew for he knew no other way. He was a consummate fighter; he had rebuilt his life before and Aramis knew that he would do it again. He would be held up and supported by his brothers who had no intention of letting him go to endure this by himself.

He would never change; it was far too late for that particular flaw to improve. There would always be something about which he felt guilty, for which he felt he had to take total responsibility, but as long as he remained with them, they could keep him measured, controlled, grounded.

 _Aramis did not stop the gently, rhythmical rocking that began to have a_ soothing, soporific effect on Athos cocooned between them. The Minister dropped a kiss on the rumpled curls of the man he held; Athos was hot in the throes of his emotional outburst and his shirt stuck damply to his thin frame.

This moment was Athos' own rebirth, his redemption. Yes, he had hunted and killed the two men directly responsible for the deaths of Raoul and Sylvie. Some might call it revenge but Aramis would argue differently on behalf of his friend.

Raised to be Comte, Athos had had to learn to give justice to his tenants. As a musketeer soldier and captain, it was his duty to uphold the law. Even as an intelligencer, there were unspoken 'understandings' of what actions might be seen as necessary within the role. Of his own admission, he had ensured that he had apprehended the right men. They would have received a death sentence if brought to trial anyway.

Had he killed Desmarais himself, it might have been more difficult to explain regarding the law and it would be something else for which, in the future, he might have had regrets or guilt. No, they had saved him from that error of judgement, from committing what might be perceived by some as another sin and his emotional breakdown might just have gone a little way in clearing the cleared the debt he felt regarding his own past actions.

And so the three of them sat there together. Aramis would make him that offer of spymaster but that was for another day. Right now, Athos needed to get through the next hour, the next day, the next week – or however long it took to reach a stage where he could consider his future and rebuild his life. Whatever happened, he would not do it alone. They would be there for and with him: Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan.

They were and always would be Tréville's _Inseparables._

 _ ***As told in 'Renegade'**_


	48. Chapter 48

_**Dear all, thank you so much for the incredible responses to the last chapter. It was a labour of love and had been in my head for a good ten months.**_

 _ **So here we are at last at the final chapter of 'Redemption', which has been 12.5 months in the writing! It has been a long time and I know I have lost some readers along the way who have not been happy with my post-series 3 'Musketeers' world.**_

 _ **Thank you from the bottom of my heart to those of you who have remained on this journey with me. Know that all your comments, my 'regular' reviewers, the guests, all the 'followers' and 'favourites' and the huge number of people reading this story have really encouraged me. With this being the end, I'd really love to hear the thoughts of some of others of you who, for whatever reason, have not wanted to or who have felt unable to comment before. Once I have put the final full stop, I shall probably feel bereft for a while!**_

 _ **I explained once before that this is my 'closure' for Series 3 and I hope that some of you might feel the same way. At this point, I have no intention of re-visiting this particular storyline, but who knows what tomorrow may bring?**_

 _ **I shall be 'disappearing' for a little while, although I will 'pop in' to read and review. A few of you already know that I have been working on my own original historical novel and have a competition deadline of 13**_ _ **th**_ _ **July. Although I shan't be holding my breath, I must make the attempt and submit it; the first prize is a publishing contract. It will also help me to prepare for other similar opportunities that exist later this year and into 2019 when I am unsuccessful this time!**_

 _ **However, the good news (at least, I hope it is good news for you) is that I shall most definitely be back with more stories from the 'R' stable (I did hint at it a while ago.)**_

' _ **Repercussions' comes next (title courtesy of Mountain Cat – thank you.) All planned, it is set in 1629 before Season 1 and means that Captain Tr**_ _ **é**_ _ **ville is back in a prominent role. (I don't know about you, but I've missed him!) It is also my take on how Athos finally becomes the Captain's lieutenant. Then there is 'Reliquary'. I have started the research but that is obviously on temporary hold for the present. It's set probably between episodes 1 and 2 of Season 1, so d'Artagnan will definitely be there but I say no more! A couple of other shorter stories are also making their presence felt in the little grey matter.**_

 _ **But for now, a repeated 'thank you' for all your support and I hope you enjoy the closing chapter of 'Redemption'. I've even left you with some historical notes at the end. We haven't had any for a long while!**_

 _ **Until the next time,**_

 _ **V**_

CHAPTER 48

I

Porthos sat in the chamber, occupying himself by cleaning his pistol, his glance occasionally shifting to the bed. The sleeping man had moved little since being settled by his friends there the night before once the storm of grief had finally abated. Now, at last, there were signs of waking. Athos gave a low groan as his senses stirred; his eyes flickered but took some time to open fully. Stretching languidly, his eyes alighted on his friend.

"Hello there," Porthos greeted him. "I was beginning to think you weren't goin' to be rejoinin' us today."

Before Athos could say anything, his stomach rumbled noisily, and the big man laughed, reaching behind him to a table and a plate of food standing ready.

"Sit yourself up," he instructed and waited until Athos had propped himself up against the pile of pillows and rearranged the blankets before handing him the large plate.

Athos eyed the eclectic mix of food before him: bread, cheese, cold meat, fruit and an assortment of pastries.

"Breakfast?" he queried, thinking that it was an odd combination.

Porthos laughed even louder. "Hardly! You missed that a long time ago and the next meal too. Aramis had this sent thinking that there would be something there to tempt you before dinner."

Frowning, Athos tried to assimilate what he had just been told. "How long have I been asleep?"

Porthos grew serious once more. "About sixteen hours all told. You needed it." He watched as Athos picked up a piece of cheese, broke it in half and began to nibble at one part. "How are you feelin'?" he dared to ask.

Athos was thoughtful. "Right now?" Porthos nodded. "I am not sure that I am sufficiently awake to know. Drained, even though I have slept for so long."

"It's not surprisin'."

The frown was back. "And I have a headache. I do not recall having an excess of drink so it will be the result of sleeping so heavily; either that or ….." He stopped mid-sentence as memories of his uncontrollable emotional outburst flooded back. "About last night," he began, ashamed by what had happened but Porthos abruptly held up a hand to silence him.

"If you're plannin' for the next words to come out of your mouth bein' 'I'm sorry', then you'd better keep quiet an' think again."

Athos looked confused so Porthos shifted his chair a little closer and laid his hand lightly on his friend's shoulder. "There is absolutely nothin' you've got to apologise for; I mean it. Aramis an' I – we talked about it later an' we're just glad that we were here for you, that you let us be with you. I don't want to go on an' upset you again, but we knew you were hurtin' the moment you came back an' we've seen you hurtin' plenty of times before that too. We wanted to help you, but we know you're a private man an' we respect that, but we've been hopin' an' prayin' that you'd let us in some time an' last night you did."

As Athos eyes' threatened to fill with tears again, Porthos grinned mischievously and patted his shoulder. "Mind you, you let us in to a bit more than we were expectin' but we were glad to 'ave been there." His grin faded. "We're brothers; you 'ave to remember that an' it would've been wrong if we'd been anywhere else but with you. We've got a long history, the three of us."

Athos huffed, the corners of his mouth twitching as the words penetrated. "Where is Aramis?" He was wondering about the location of the third part of their self-created trinity.

"'E was meetin' with Her Majesty first thing and then the Council. He thought 'e ought to give them some time as he's been chasin' round the countryside helpin' to catch rotten barons, but he's come back a couple of times to check on you. I dare say he'll put in another appearance soon. Now eat!" he cajoled.

Athos obliged and tucked into a pastry, its rich crust crumbling as he bit into it. Something in what Porthos had said did not rest easily with him and then, suddenly it dawned on him. For over five years it had been the three of them and then ….

"d'Artagnan?" he asked, vaguely remembering that the Musketeer Captain had not been with him when he had finally given way to his grief.

"He's distracted with the new arrival at the garrison."

Athos' hand stopped half way to his mouth, pastry flakes falling onto the blanket as his eyes widened. "The baby?" he breathed.

"A beautiful baby girl, so the message said. She arrived screamin' about four this mornin'."

"And Constance?" Child birth was always a worrying time for any woman.

"Absolutely fine; they both are and d'Artagnan is beside 'imself with excitement. 'E can't wait to show her off to us, says we are all her honorary uncles." Porthos hesitated, concerned that his enthusiasm was a little insensitive in the wake of Athos' breakdown.

"I am delighted for them."

Porthos could see from the shining green eyes and unmistakable smile that Athos meant every word.

"What have they named her?"

"Ah now, there's the rub," Porthos said, running a hand over his tight curls. "Constance was convinced she was carrying a boy, a new musketeer, so they only considered boys' names. From what 'is message said, they'd narrowed it down to their mothers' names but couldn't agree on the order."

"I have no doubt they'll sort it soon," Athos assured him.

"Naturally but that doesn't stop you an' me 'avin' a little wager now, will it? Marie-Madeleine or Madeleine-Marie?"

Athos' eyes narrowed. "Porthos, you are a rogue and always will be. How can you dare to turn the arrival of their baby into a gambling opportunity?"

"Oh, easily," and the big man's guffaw rang out again. "Just want to reassure you that's some things never change. So what's it to be then?"

Athos was still thinking as the door opened and Aramis entered, relieved to see his friend awake and the atmosphere within the room much improved upon the last evening.

"That depends," the former Comte said carefully.

Porthos looked puzzled. "On what?"

"On which of the names belongs to Constance's mother. I would be willing to lay my money on the fact that Constance will get her way."

"You two are incorrigible," Aramis said lightly, pulling up a chair and joining them. "Gambling on the new baby."

"Do not blame me for this; I said as much myself," Athos insisted lightly. "Porthos started it!"

"I am pleased to see you awake and looking better for a little rest, my friend," Aramis said softly as Porthos stood and went to pour wine for each of them.

They chatted for a while about inconsequential things, not wanting to dwell on Athos' pain of the previous evening. It would fade but not disappear entirely; Sylvie and Raoul's names would never be forgotten and mentioning them would become easier in time.

"I thought you might want to know that once the trial started, Milady was given a task that took her from Paris," Aramis explained. She had, after all, been heavily involved in the detaining of Desmarais and it was natural to assume that at some point, Athos would wonder where she was, so the Minister chose to pre-empt his question.

"Who's the poor devil she's aimin' on assassinatin' this time?" Porthos growled.

"No-one, I hope," Aramis answered ruefully. "She is following to ensure that the two Spanish agents cross the border out of France and stay out. It will probably keep her away for several weeks."

His two friends eyed him suspiciously.

"Your doing?" Athos asked eventually.

"I had a hand in it. She does think the instruction is mine," Aramis admitted. "Actually, the Queen suggested it; she thought you had enough on your mind at this moment without any unnecessary complications."

"Oh, she's definitely an 'unnecessary complication'," Porthos snorted, but Athos said nothing, making it impossible to know how he was responding to that particular piece of information.

In the ensuing lull in the conversation, Aramis thought it appropriate to change the subject and share his news.

"You know, Athos, that we all want you to stay and, obviously, you will be needing some form of employment. I entirely understand your reluctance – no, outright refusal – to accept anything that you think has been created especially for you. We are in agreement, d'Artagnan included, that his offer to you was well-meant but a little hasty. I have another offer for you and I want you to give it careful thought; I am not looking for an immediate answer. You can take as long as you need. Will you give me your word that you will at least consider it?"

Intrigued, Athos nodded, giving Aramis the encouragement to proceed.

"For as long as we have been working in Paris, someone has been responsible for the spy network: Richelieu, Rochefort, Tréville and now me and I do not want it, have never wanted it. Your reports from the north have always been invaluable, long before I knew you were responsible. You have the strategic, inquiring mind that I do not have. You do not have to be back on the road and alone; you can oversee everything from Paris. I am offering you the position of spymaster and I would be delighted if you would accept it. It would be one less thing that I have to worry about and you would report to the Council and me. Will you think on it? Please?"

Athos, his face an impenetrable mask, studied Aramis carefully. He was giving nothing away and Aramis hardly dared breathe.

"I will consider it," he said at last as Aramis clapped his hands delightedly and sighed noisily in relief. "It is tempting."

His last pronouncement gave the other two men a real sense of hope that he would remain with them. It was a sincere offer, a role that was needed if it would alleviate Aramis' workload and it was definitely something that Athos would find stimulating, challenging and able to make his own.

"One more thing," Aramis added, raising his glass in a silent toast. "When you are ready, Athos, and not before, the Queen wishes to have a private audience with you."

II

Five days passed before Athos was, in Aramis' opinion as well as his own, strong enough to attend upon Her Majesty in a meeting arranged by the First Minister.

"What is this about?" Athos asked as they walked slowly together towards the Queen's private apartments rather than the main public audience room.

"Why don't you wait and see?" Aramis said mysteriously.

"You do have an idea then?"

"I have not had occasion to discuss details with the Queen but there is something she wishes to put to you."

They walked on a little way.

"I am still thinking about your offer of the post of spymaster," Athos announced.

"I am glad to hear it."

"And I am definitely warming to the idea, but you said I did not have to give you an answer immediately."

"And that still stands. No pressure, I said, and I meant it," Aramis reassured him.

As they approached the Queen's apartments, Athos lapsed into a thoughtful silence, but Aramis was no longer so concerned when his friend stopped speaking, for the quiet was now more reflective and not the overwhelming grief in which he had lost himself. He had spent the past five days still sleeping a lot, a much-needed restorative to his body and soul. As his periods of wakefulness extended, he spent his time in Aramis' quarters, still avoiding wider company but he did begin to browse the books on Aramis' shelves and removed a volume for closer reading. Gradually, his appetite was returning and he was, by now, eating better-sized portions. It would take time yet to put some flesh back on him after the months of self-imposed neglect and, after the events following Desmarais' arrest, even the altered clothing was worryingly loose in the way that it hung on him.

Two footmen opened the doors to the Queen's apartments to admit them and, standing just inside the first chamber, they bowed low.

"My dear Athos," and she rose to greet him, her hand outstretched. She was a vision of beauty, clad in a flowing gown of cornflower blue and white, trimmed with lace and pearls. Her blond hair was piled high and held in place by jewels from the royal collection. To Athos, she had barely aged a day in the fifteen years since his first palace duty, despite the difficulties and tragedy life had thrown at her. Now, though, she radiated an inner strength, grace and happiness, her delicate smile welcoming.

Approaching her, he took her hand and bowed again over it. It felt smooth, warm and small in his light grip.

"Come and sit with me," she insisted, turning and leading him to a collection of finely tapestried chairs. He waited until she was seated before he sat likewise. Waving a hand at her ladies-in-waiting in a pre-arranged gesture, they all departed through the far doors with the exception of the woman whom she now regarded as her closest confidante, who took her place discreetly in the background on a low couch set against the wall.

"Aramis?" Anne's silky voice and slightly tilted head invited him to join them and he settled on a chair to her left so that he could easily see both her and Athos.

"I am glad to see you out and about and appreciate your visiting me today," she began.

"The invitation was at Your Majesty's behest and five days were long enough to keep you waiting. I am only sorry for the delay," Athos said smoothly.

"The important thing is that you are here now. I cannot begin to imagine the difficult time you have had and in bringing Baron Desmarais to the justice he deserved."

Athos hoped that she would not go on to mention Sylvie and Raoul by name, the mere mention of 'the difficult time' was enough for him to know that he was not as strong emotionally as he had hoped. Any weakness in front of the Queen would be a humiliation beyond measure. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard, concentrating upon her next words.

"It is reassuring to me that you have had your good friends and brothers around you."

"They have been a great comfort to me," he admitted, a tremor detectable in his voice.

"But I am sure you would like to know why I have asked you here," she went on. He nodded.

"The idea is all that of the King," she announced, looking at Aramis for verification, to which he nodded vehemently. "My son and I have discussed it at length but we have not even shared it with the First Minister here to any degree."

Athos looked from one to the other of them and rapidly formed the decision that Aramis did not know much detail. His curiosity was aroused.

"You may not know, given your absence from court, that my son has developed a passion for all things military. He has long played with an assortment of toy soldiers, something his fath-" She stopped mid-word, her eyes flickering in the direction of Aramis and corrected herself. "It was something my late husband encouraged. That play has become all-consuming and he loves nothing more than to be taken to see those of his regiments parading and practicing when time permits. He insists on inspecting them and has garnered a great deal of knowledge about their history and strength.

"He has also expressed a desire to form his own new regiments as King and, with his other passion being horses and riding, he wishes his first one to be a cavalry regiment. It will be garrisoned here in Paris so that he can watch its inception and growth and will form an integral part of his personal guard."

Athos was holding his breath as he guessed the reason for his presence.

"Louis wants to have an active hand in its development and I want someone whom I can trust to be working with him, guiding and advising him. As young as he was at the time, he remembers you well from the days following his succession and speaks of you often. Of course, he has had no idea as to the work you have continued to do for France but I shall ensure that he will learn of this in due course. In the meantime, on his behalf, I wish to offer you this opportunity of creating a new cavalry regiment with the immediate rank and remuneration of Colonel. Please say you will do it."

She stopped and watched him worriedly, fearful that he might turn her down.

"Perhaps, Your Majesty," Aramis tentatively suggested, mindful of his friend's fragility and not desiring that he feel pressured from this unexpected quarter, "Athos might be given a little time to consider your more than generous offer?"

"But of course," she agreed hastily; anything rather than face the disappointment of an immediate refusal.

At the same time as she spoke, the door burst open and in ran nine-year-old Louis, overly excited and behaving in a manner totally unexpected of a monarch but touchingly typical of a boy his age. His governess was in pursuit, admonishing him for interrupting his mother when she was in a serious meeting with the First Minister and another gentleman. The two men mentioned jumped to their feet and bowed to the boy who was their King.

Ignoring his governess, the boy threw himself into his mother's open arms, oblivious to the fact that he was crushing the fabric of her gown. His eyes fixed on Athos, his words were for her.

"He has said yes, hasn't he, Maman?" the boy's words were rushed, breathless.

Anne laughed lightly at her son's enthusiasm and tried to chastise him. "Louis, you forget yourself. Is this how a king conducts himself, even in the presence of two of your mother's most valued and trusted friends?"

Louis, chagrined, released his mother and straightened himself, rearranging his doublet as he did so.

"My apologies, gentlemen," he said very seriously. It was incongruous after the boy's entry into the room and strangely formal. He could not restrain himself for long though and he took an eager step towards Athos, the desire of a boy at odds with the expectations of a king.

"But you have said yes to my idea, haven't you, Athos? Please say yes," he pleaded. The fervour of the boy was in control again as his words tumbled from him. "I have lots of ideas that I want to share with you and have made a long list in my best handwriting, although I did spell three words incorrectly but my tutor made me rewrite the whole thing. He said that it was not fit to set before a colonel. I thought perhaps we could start tomorrow morning. I want to show you what I have planned. I have a name; they will be known as the King's Regiment - Cavalry. My own household cavalry! Isn't that marvellous?"

Aramis looked from the boy-king to Athos and then to the Queen, frowning in consternation. This was exactly what he had _not_ wanted for Athos; no pressure, he had assured him. He signalled to Anne with a slight shake of the head and she made another concerted effort to curb the boy's excitement.

"Louis, you must not go on so. You must allow Athos to have time to think about your offer," she insisted calmly.

The boy's face fell, his disappointment clear and then he appeared to remember something and he flushed with embarrassment. "I am sorry, Athos. It is so rude of me. You are in mourning, Maman told me, but I forgot as you are not dressed in black …"

"Louis!" Anne's voice was now raised in anger at her son's indiscretion. "Athos, I am so sorry for my son's disrespect."

Athos gave a slight smile and shook his head. It took the innocence of a child –albeit one who already carried a great weight upon his shoulders – to speak plainly and honestly. He addressed the boy. "Your Majesty is correct. The fault is mine for being inappropriately attired but I had no black nor the time to order some as circumstances meant I was travelling and working."

"Maman told me that you found a traitor amongst our nobles, discovered the evidence and brought him to Paris for trial and punishment. I refuse to even speak his name."

"You are right again, Your Majesty; he does not deserve that recognition. As for bringing him to justice, I did not do it alone. I had the help and support of the Minister here, along with General du Vallon and Captain d'Artagnan."

The young King's face broke into a broad grin. "The musketeers rode again."

Athos could not suppress his own smile at the boy's exuberance. "Indeed they did, Sire."

"I have heard many stories of your early days as musketeers, of Captain Tréville and his _Inseparables._ "

Athos rolled his eyes and glanced at Aramis, who merely shrugged in acknowledgement of his guilt but they were both taken back when the King continued.

"They were not always Aramis' tales. Oh no, my mother told me stories as well. You were the master swordsman, were you not? The best in Paris, if not the whole of France?"

"Yes, Sire, so they told me," Athos admitted.

"One of my favourite stories is when you defeated the Duke of Savoy in a duel here within the palace so that he had to sign the treaty. I would love to hear it from you and about how the Cardinal was dreadfully worried in case you lost. Perhaps you could tell it to me soon when we are in one of our meetings?" The boy was wheedling again for the answer he most wanted to hear.

"I'm sure Your Majesty does not really …."

But the boy was not to be swayed. Warming to his subject, the young King interrupted him. "Even better, you could show me the moves you made that led to your disarming him. You could teach them to me. I have a sword master but he has none of the skills you have. Aramis told me. He also said you taught Captain d'Artagnan everything he knows."

Athos shot the First Minister another withering look. "Not everything, Sire. Captain d'Artagnan has plenty of skills of his own."

"That's what I want," Louis beseeched him. "I want skills but how can I learn and develop them when my tutor never teaches me anything very exciting; he is far too worried that I might be scratched. It is no fun at all."

"Learning how to use a sword effectively is a serious business, Your Majesty. There is no fun in taking another man's life with the weapon," Athos said quickly.

"I understand that," the boy said defensively.

"I did not mean any criticism, Your Majesty." Athos feared that he had spoken too harshly.

"None taken, Athos." Louis drew himself up to his full height. "I have a lot to learn if I am going to be a good king and one of those things is the ability to defend myself. I know there will always be those around to protect me but I will not take advantage of that fact. My father had the best instructor at the time in Tréville; I remember him telling me. I, too, would have the best and I have been told that is you, Athos. As King, I deserve the best. Do you not agree? I know being in charge of a regiment will take a lot of your time but I hope you will also teach me something of the sword."

This was not what Aramis had had in mind and his nervousness was apparent in his fidgeting.

Athos, however, gave another of his slight grins. The boy was devious and persistent, he had to give him that. It was a trait of his Bourbon predecessors but it was also a quality with which Athos had been familiar for fifteen years; a quality that was as frustrating as it was endearing but he had learned to live with it in Aramis.

"I think that Your Majesty is already very skilled in some things; I already feel that I have been cleverly manoeuvred into a corner," he said in feigned disapproval.

"Athos, you don't have to reply now," Aramis intervened. He was silenced by Athos' raised hand.

"It is fine, Aramis. I am sorry to disappoint you, my friend, but you will have to seek elsewhere for a new spymaster for I am not able to accept your very kind offer. His Majesty here has made me a far better one and who am I to deny my King?" He dipped his head in acknowledgement of the young monarch who, even now, could not contain his excitement.

"That is a blow, I must confess," Aramis said, trying to muster all the disappointment he could when what he really wanted to do was shout with joy. That would come later, along with a heartfelt celebration; Athos was going to stay in Paris.

"I really want to be involved, receive regular reports and things," Louis was thinking ahead.

"Of course, Sire, that is understandable," Athos continued, eyes fixed and answers directed towards the young King. "We must set standards for the men who are commissioned."

"I don't want just anyone in my cavalry," Louis' enthusiasm was on the rise again.

"Naturally, Sire," Athos agreed. "And we must think to their training."

"And to their horses. They must be of the very best quality even if we have to search abroad. They must be a credit to the regiment. Weapons! My men must be suitably equipped. If they are called to fight, I will not have it said they were wanting in bravery, skills or weapons on the battlefield."

"I detect that Your Majesty has already given this much serious thought," Athos said. His voice was genuine, interested and in no way condescending. He was an officer, a leader of men, former nobleman and veteran of many campaigns speaking to his King and not merely pandering to the whims of a nine-year-old-boy.

"I recommend, therefore, that we meet at ten in the morning to begin discussing the finer points and that the Minister joins us." He looked at Aramis, knowing his friend would welcome any opportunity to spend time with the boy he considered to be his son. "After all, we will need his approval on expenditure. Is that acceptable to Your Majesty?"

Louis' back straightened in ill-concealed delight. "I shall look forward to it immensely. Thank you."

"It is I who should be thanking you, Your Majesty," Athos countered. "Your idea and generous offer could not have come at a better time."

Louis shook his head. "There is nothing generous about it, I assure you. I am being utterly selfish, Athos; there, I have admitted it. I wanted to start my own cavalry; it will be the first of many regiments to be associated with my reign. I want the best to lead them. Mother tells me that I am most fortunate to have Aramis as my First Minister, d'Artagnan as Captain of the musketeers and Porthos as a General. You are my first and most obvious choice for this position. I know you will not fail me."

"Majesty," Athos acknowledged and bowed low as the young monarch turned to leave.

He hoped the boy would listen to sound advice and the voice of reason when it came to creating a new regiment but only time would tell. It was an interesting proposition and one that had been totally unexpected, but it was a fascinating challenge and he had seldom shied away from those in his life. He had proven his ability to lead men – in war, no less. He and his cavalry could be called upon to return to the front but perhaps the conflict with Spain would be a thing of the past by the time he had trained the regiment to the appropriate battle standard.

To create something from nothing would be his achievement and the fact that others had the faith in him was accolade enough. Tréville had created the musketeers from nothing on one King's command and he had been asked to do something similar by the successor. It was fitting and felt right. Tréville had always had belief in him, making him his lieutenant first ** and then captain, although he felt neither ready nor capable of leading others. It was Aramis who had reminded him a few nights earlier that Tréville had seen something in him that he had fought against and tried to deny. The man had not been wrong; Athos had proven it many times and now would continue to do so.

Louis paused by the door. "Until tomorrow then. First we talk business and then we arrange the first of the lessons with a rapier," and he was gone.

"Thank you, Athos, from the bottom of my heart," Anne said and, accompanied by the rustle of her silk skirts, she also departed.

There was a lengthy pause and then Aramis chuckled softly, even as Athos exhaled in disbelief at what had just transpired.

"Congratulations, my friend," Aramis said warmly, as the two men moved to embrace each other.

"I am really sorry about the spymaster position," Athos said as he released Aramis. "I had made up my mind to accept it and then the King made a different offer."

Aramis laughed. "I will find someone – eventually. I have no doubt that you would have excelled in the role but this one is much better for you. I do not care what you do as long as we have you here with us in Paris and you find some sort of peace and contentment."

"I cannot believe what has just happened."

"I can; there is no-one else who deserves this fresh start more than you."

"You said that I would rebuild my life; I just did not expect an opportunity to come about so soon."

"Little steps, Athos. Just take little steps," Aramis warned him.

Athos nodded. "I do not think I dare do any more at present but the King's new challenge for me is an interesting one and definitely diverting. I can see that my biggest task will be to keep him focused and realistic whilst not smothering his idealism." He cupped the back of Aramis' neck with his hand, "But I need not worry. I have had plenty of practice over the years in striving to keep his father under control."

Aramis' eyes clouded with tears at this tender and unexpected recognition of his relationship to the young King. "And look where it got you," he choked as they held each other again tightly. They remained like that for what seemed an age and then he pulled away, slapping Athos genially on the back. "I can't wait for you to tell the others. Celebrations are in order this evening."

"Wait," Athos grabbed his arm. "There is something very important I need to do first."

"And that is?"

"I need to go and meet my new honorary niece. Will you join me?"

If it were at all possible, Aramis' grin broadened. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Come on, Colonel; let's go."

He slid an arm around Athos' shoulders and led him from the Queen's apartments, secure in the knowledge that the four of them were set to remain in Paris for the foreseeable future – once Porthos had returned from concluding his responsibilities at the front. Their roles had changed considerably, and life had, at times, been very hard but all that mattered was that they were together again.

All for one and one for all. The spirit and brotherhood illuminated by their motto would always live on in Tréville's _Inseparables._

 **THE END**

 _ **Author's note:**_

 _ **The BBC had, partly through necessity, changed dates e.g. opening Season 1 in 1630 when Dumas' first book began in 1625. There was the added problem of Peter Capaldi getting another role! That meant Richelieu dying considerably earlier than in real life, likewise Louis XIII. Similarly, the programme had the King's sister, Henrietta Maria, turning up to sell her jewels to raise funds significantly earlier than she really did. She was in Europe seeking financial aid well into the English Civil War which didn't start until 1642.**_

 _ **To cut a long story short here, I have also played with dates a little. With this story set in 1640, it consequently doesn't quite tie in with the details below.**_

 _ **1635 – Louis XIII passed a law wanting new regiments created. Cardinal Richelieu set up the Cardinal's Dragoon Regiment.**_

 _ **1641 – the Cardinal died and his regiment was passed to the King, becoming the King's Regiment of Mounted Fusiliers.**_

 _ **1642 – Louis died.**_

 _ **1646 - The Regiment de Fusiliers**_ _ **à**_ _ **Cheval was renamed Regiment du Roi – Cavalerie (The King's Regiment – Cavalry.) Louis was 8 years old at this point.**_

 _ **Please forgive me for taking historical liberties in this instance by forming a regiment from scratch 6 years early (or 5 years late, depending upon how you look at it.) Louis XIV was fascinated by his armies, did take a huge, active interest and formed a number of regiments during his reign. I was looking for something plausible for Athos as a new challenge.**_

' _ **breakfast' – a 15**_ _ **th**_ _ **century word. (First record of it written in English. I was a little surprised to find the compound noun was as early as that.)**_

' _ **pastry': the ancient Egyptians, Romans and Greeks all used a form of pastry, some of which was different from today's versions. For them, it was a type of 'filo' pastry. Hand raised meat pies were popular throughout the medieval period and pastry making became increasingly fashionable during the 17**_ _ **th**_ _ **century. Athos would not have been tucking into puff pastry though; that is thought to have been the accidental 1645 creation of Claude Gel**_ _ **é**_ _ **e, a French painter and apprentice cook. What a combination!**_

 _ **Maman – informal French address for mother, the more formal is m**_ _ **ère.**_

 _ **** The story of this will be told in 'Repercussions'.**_


End file.
